


Voice of a Stranger

by delightful_fear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Never Met, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:52:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8048362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delightful_fear/pseuds/delightful_fear
Summary: Back from Afghanistan, John is feeling out of sorts, suffering from his leg issue and the nightmares from PTSD.  One night, he feels especially low, and calls a depression hotline.The intelligent but rude hotline worker is nothing like he expected.  Funny how months later, he still can't get the unusual conversation, or that man, out of his head....





	1. The Phone

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic for Sherlock. I hope I do OK writing these characters and keeping with the tone of the show.

“Yes, what do you want?” The voice was a low baritone, but the question was abrupt and sounding slightly bored.

John glanced at the phone number on his screen quickly, and down to the pamphlet. Yes, he had the correct number. “Um… this is CALM?”

He could hear the clicking of a pen, and then a low sigh. “Yes, the horrible acronym of Campaign Against Living Melancholy. What’s your problem, then?” 

The man on the other end of the phone line sounded impatient, like he’d heard it all before. John considered making his excuses and hanging up, but the thought of staring at the ceiling some more seemed even worse than continuing with this. 

“I…um…can’t sleep. I’m having nightmares. Can’t concentrate. Um…” John felt ashamed to admit this. “The therapist they assigned me said I should blog about my feelings but it’s not really seeming to help.” 

“Hmmm…how about the old advice of working a full day or going for a long walk?” 

John thought there was a tinge of sarcasm in the comment, but what depression hotline worker would have that when talking to a caller? 

Glancing over at his cane resting against the wall, John sighed. “Hard to do either with a bum leg.” OK, it was psychosomatic, but it didn’t stop the damn leg from making it hard to move around. 

“Boring.” The low voice on the other end huffed, with a drawn out sigh.

John’s eyebrows shot up. Yes, there was no doubt now this worker was being rude, and totally inappropriate. “Excuse me? What did you mean by that?” His voice had a bit of heat now, feeling miffed at this insolent brat.

“Come on, now…” The rich voice started, before stopping with an obvious pause.

“…John…” John helpfully supplied.

There was another sound of impatience. “Oh, how original.” The man drawled, voice dropping. “Well, ‘John’, obviously you are not that serious a case. You are just bored, something I can relate to."

"What?" John couldn't believe the nerve of this worker. 

"You are back in London, and you were away long enough not to have close friends or family to turn to with your troubles, so you called here. You didn't go back to Hampshire, so clearly you have been away from there for quite a while too. You said 'they assigned you a therapist' and 'they' must be the army. You didn't choose to come back here. You were invalidated out, and assigned the therapist for PTSD."

John gasped. How could he know all that?

"But it's more than that, isn't it? There's a hint of shame or embarrassment about it all, more than just PTSD. Your tone changed when you said 'bum leg'. It's psychosomatic, isn't it? And it's preventing you from going back to work, something that would be hindered by you having a cane."

"Now look here, mate..." This was all hitting far too close to home.

"You're not the type to navel-gaze and write about your feelings in some blog, John. You joined the army, left England, looking for adventure. You don't need more therapy. You just need to find something that captures your interest again, gives you something besides your past to dwell on. Once you do that, I doubt the leg will trouble you anymore and the severity of your nightmares will fade."

John was sputtering, outraged. "What do you know? How dare you tell me things like this?"

"Was I wrong?"

It was shocking that a man he'd only spoken briefly with on the phone had gotten it all right. "That's not the point! You have been insufferably rude! I called here for help and you tell me I just need a new hobby?"

"Not just a hobby, John. A passion for something. Find what sparks an interest and chase it as fast as you can with that fake bum leg." The man drawled, unruffled by John's heated words. "Well, that's that, then. Goodnight."

And John stared down at his phone. The bloody, bleeding sod had hung up on him! From a depression hotline! Told him his feelings were all bollocks and he just needed to get over himself.

John laid back on his little single bed in the drab bedsit, staring at the ceiling as that man's words ran through his mind, again and again, pissing him off more as he was shocked at the gall of that blunt, rude man.

When he eventually wound down enough to sleep, he slept without nightmares, for the first time in months.

\---

The next week, John went through his daily routines. Visiting his therapist, writing his damn blog, working at piecing his life back together. The bullet to his shoulder had damaged more than just the joint. It had unraveled his whole life. He had been in the army for so many years. His life had been directed by his C.O. Work, lots of work, and then the easy camaraderie of soldiers between shifts. Brothers and sisters in arms. They had been his family for so long, it was odd to be on his own, alone. Rattling around, trying to fill the time. No sense of urgency in anything he did.

He kept thinking back to that strange conversation from the middle of that night. It almost felt surreal now. Was he mis-remembering it? Surely that worker hadn’t been that rude and abrupt? John hadn’t been sleeping well then, and was feeling depressed and frustrated when he had called. Maybe it had come across as worse than it actually had been. 

The conversation kept repeating in his mind though. Funny how we always focus on negative comments more than positive ones, instantly springing to defensive thoughts to refute the negativity, to poke holes in it until it deflated. Trouble was, the comments of that deep-voiced stranger weren’t so easy to dismiss. How had he been able to read John so accurately over the phone? 

Such an unusual man. John tried to reflect back on that stranger. What could he tell about the man from that short telephone conversation? 

He was obviously intelligent, but cocky about it. Likely educated at the best schools, and therefore from a wealthy family. This was supported by his upper class accent. He was dismissive and abrupt, not afraid to offend others. That hinted that he was not afraid of being on his own, maybe a loner type. A bit of a show-off, the way he had rattled off those things about John, confident in his ideas. He reminded John of a know-it-all teenager, smart but missing social graces and tact. 

And then there was his voice. A low, rich baritone. Carefully pronounced words, a preciseness to them. Expressive, whether he was groaning about being bored or running through his explanations. John had the impression that he was fairly young, likely around John’s age or slightly younger. 

It brought to mind an article John had read in the paper once, that people were quite good at estimating someone's age, height, and weight just from hearing their voice. Somehow, in his mind’s eye, he was picturing the hotline worker as a tall, slim, young man. Confident and attractive, but not really caring if he had the approval of others. Brilliant but alone.

\---

“There you go, Mrs. Pinkerton. Make sure you take them with meals, to prevent stomach upset.” John smiled as he passed the prescription note to the elderly lady.

She gave him a sweet smile, and he helped her in getting off the examination table. Soon she was on her way. He did his notes into the computer for her file, and went out to call the next patient. 

He was still walking carefully, usually without a cane now, not totally confident in his leg yet. But often, he just got involved in his work, focusing on his patients, and forgetting about himself. Finding he moved around and bent down without hesitation. Funny how the mind worked like that. 

By the time his shift finished, he was feeling tired and took his time walking home with the cane. Picking up some Thai food on the way, John got back to his bedsit and dug into his dinner hungrily. It felt good to have a satisfying job again. Sure, work at the medical clinic wasn’t as exciting as working in a war zone, but it was good to help people, to feel useful again. Also good to work with the clinic staff, getting a bit of the team feeling he missed from being in the army. And there was even an attractive doctor he had flirted with and was considering asking out. 

Chuckling as he gathered up the empty food containers, John guessed he had that rude hotline worker to thank for giving him the push he had needed to rejoin life. Their conversation had stayed in his head all these months.

Opening a drawer, John pulled out the old pamphlet from his therapist with the hotline number. _What the hell._

“Thank you for calling CALM. What is on your mind tonight?” The voice was a young man, sounding in his early twenties perhaps. 

“Um…Hi. I’m actually calling about a call I made to your line a couple months ago. I spoke to a man who was quite unusual…” John started, wishing he had a name.

The young man let out an impatient groan. “OK, hold on. I’ll transfer you to my manager. She handles all the complaints.” 

“Complaints? Ah no, it’s not…” John started, but was put on hold, and then the phone line clicked with the transfer. 

“Ashley MacKenzie here.” A brisk, business-like woman answered the line. 

John took a deep breath. “Hi, my name is John. I’m just calling about a conversation I had with one of your workers a couple months ago. I didn’t get his name, but he had a baritone voice and was a little rude…” Hmmm… how else could he describe him?

She let out an impatient huff. “That worker is no longer with us. I can assure you, sir, that since his time here, we have tightened up our volunteer training and screening ten-fold. I do so apologize for anything rude he may have said to you, truly.” 

“Oh, no… nothing like that, Ms. MacKenzie. He was a little rude and abrupt, but it was just –“ John shook his head, trying to find the right words.

Ashley broke in again. “If you want to take this further, I can send you a complaint form to complete about Sherlock. I’ve already had half a dozen come in about him, and he only worked here two weeks.” 

John sat up straighter. “You say his name is Sherlock?” That was quite unusual. Was that his first or last name?

She sighed. “Yes, Sherlock. Do you want me to email you a form to complete about him?”

“No, actually,” John let out a half-laugh. “I actually wanted to thank him for really helping me out. But since he’s not with you anymore, I’ll tell it to you. I was going through a hard spell, and talking to Sherlock helped me get my life back on track.”

“Oh.” Ashley said, clearly surprised to hear something good about her former volunteer.

\---

 _Sherlock._ John repeated the unusual name in his head as he opened his laptop. A google search of the name gave odd results. A rather dry website about deduction, with details about identifying types of tobacco. News articles mentioning a Sherlock Holmes in passing related to various violent crime investigations, but not describing what his involvement was very well. Were those all the same man? Sherlock was such an unusual name, so it must be. Frustratingly, there were no pictures.

John sighed as he closed the laptop. A dead end. No other way to find out a way to reach him and thank him. John tried to let the idea go, but it was strange how it lingered.

\---

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Thanks for reading this first chapter of my first Johnlock story. I will add tags as I go, as I'm not sure which characters will pop up later. Feedback welcome!

Voice Study: In research with experimental subjects who listened to voice samples from speakers, subjects are then just as capable of correctly estimating the height, weight, and age of those speakers with the same degree of accuracy as that achieved by examining photographs of those speakers. They both correctly estimate the height, weight, and age of speakers 75 per cent of the time. This was the conclusion of a study by Dr Robert Krauss and colleagues from the Department of Psychology at Columbia University and published in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology in 2002.

CALM is based on a real London based depression hotline, targeted at young men. The real acronym is Campaign Against Living Miserably. I probably should have changed the name of my hotline more, but my brain couldn't seem up to this. ;) 


	2. The Clinic

"Greg Lestrade." John called out to the busy waiting room, and a tall man with salt and pepper hair stood up, putting weight gingerly on one foot. Beside him, a small woman with curly dark hair wrapped an arm around his waist, supporting his weak side. 

John led the pair into an examination room, and Greg eased himself onto the edge of the examination table with a grimace. The younger woman was hovering nearby, looking for a chance to help if he needed it, her expression concerned.

Sitting on a stool with rollers, John flipped the paperwork open. "I'm Dr. Watson. Greg, what seems to be the problem?" It was obviously something involving his right leg, but it was best to get the full story from his patient.

"I was chasing a suspect, and landed badly after climbing a chain link fence. I might have twisted my ankle. Hopefully it's not broken." Greg moved the foot in question, pain instantly tightening his friendly expression. 

The young woman gave an exasperated noise, patting Greg's arm. "You wouldn't have been running around dark London streets if it wasn't for that freak spooking the suspect. How many times have I told you to keep him away from the crime scenes?"

Greg rolled his eyes at the complaint, clearly one he'd heard before. "Come on, Sally. You know as well as I do that although Sherlock can cause problems occasionally, we do solve cases quicker when he's involved."

 _Sherlock?_ John's attention sharpened when he heard that name. He was dying to ask more questions, but had to keep things professional. 

"So, if it's only your leg with an injury, how about you remove your trousers and shoes? I'll just step out while you do that. Be back in a few minutes." John gave a small smile and left the room, closing the door behind him.

It took a second to catch his breath, and John realized his heart was racing a little. It was the excitement of hearing Sherlock's name mentioned after all this time, such a long time of having no way to get in contact. And in the examination room were apparently police officers who worked with the man. What were the chances?

John took some deep breaths to calm his whirling thoughts and centre himself. Walking to the staff room, he got a glass of water and sipped it slowly. The young woman, Sally, clearly didn't like Sherlock, calling him a freak. John chuckled. From his own quick phone conversation with him and the way his hotline co-workers had commented about him, it seemed Sherlock's strange behaviour was the norm.

Knocking gently on the door, John reentered the exam room. Greg was lying back on the exam table, undressed as he had requested. "Great. It seems you are all settled. Would you like your friend to stay for the examination or to step outside?" He didn't want to assume anything. They appeared to be co-workers, but could be in a relationship. Girlfriends and wives usually stayed with their partners.

"Sally, how about you wait outside? Maybe check in with Anderson on things?" Greg instructed her, his tone friendly but firm. A man used to giving orders. 

The young woman nodded, leaving the room while pulling out her phone, a sense of urgency and purpose in her movements.

John conducted the exam, asking Greg frequent questions about his medical history as he worked. The ankle was very swollen and tender.

"It appears to be just a severe sprain, so I don't think an X-Ray is needed. We will get you crutches to keep the weight off it and and ankle brace to wear to support the damaged ligaments as it heals. Practice R.I.C.E. with it...Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation, to get the swelling down." John wrapped a compression bandage around the sore ankle as he spoke, his hands quick and capable. It was a common type of injury, and he ran through the instructions to Greg easily.

Greg was nodding as John completed his spiel. "So, it looks like I'll be desk-bound for a few weeks then."

John gave a compassionate smile. "Sorry, mate. Going to have to leave running down suspects to Sally and ...Sherlock... Was that the name you mentioned earlier?" Trying for a smooth dropping of the name into the conversation, to judge Greg's reaction. See if he could be drawn into discussing him.

Laughing, Greg ran a hand through his short hair. "Sherlock running down suspects usually causes more problems than it helps. I'll leave that to my junior officers instead."

"You know I swear I've seen his name in newspaper articles before. It's such an unusual one." John dropped his gaze to his paperwork, making it seem like an offhand comment as he wrote up Greg's information.

Getting down carefully from the exam table, Greg unselfconsciously slipped his trousers back on, and reached for his shoes. "An unusual name for an unusual man. He consults with my unit occasionally."

Passing Greg a prescription for some pain meds, John stood up. "Well, the nurse will be in shortly to arrange for your crutches and brace." He ended the session and exited the room, leaving Greg to finish dressing on his own.

It was hard not to ask Greg more questions about the man he had been thinking and wondering about for so long. But there was no professional reason for him to do so. Plus, the waiting room was full and he needed to do his part. 

\---

John glanced down at his phone, reading the text from Mike that he was running a little late. He quickly replied for Mike not to worry. 

Taking a long sip of his beer, John sighed as he felt some of the tension from a long work week draining from him. The pub was fairly full, and John watched the football match more out of habit than interest. Being away from England for so many years, he had stopped following the sport as closely.

A small group came up to the bar on his one side to order drinks, and John turned away on his barstool towards the one he was saving for Mike.

"Oh, hi... Doctor...." A man to the other side said to him, and John looked that way. 

It had been a few weeks, but he recognized the man as a patient. His name started with a G, didn't it? Gavin? Gerald? "Hello." He smiled in a friendly way, wracking his brain. He saw so many patients each week.

"Greg Lestrade." The older man held out his hand with a friendly smile.

John shook it, feeling relieved at the introduction. "John Watson. So, how's your recovery going?" 

Shrugging, Greg picked up his beer and took a long sip. "I'm still wearing the ankle brace. Not back to normal but at least I'm not needing the crutches anymore." His gaze dropped, seeing the cane John had leaning against his inner thigh. "Oh, I don't remember you having that at the clinic."

John felt a bit self conscious. "A leftover from my army days. It acts up a little when I feel tired." He rarely used the cane anymore.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Greg asked, clearly interested.

Taking another sip of his beer, John looked more closely at the police officer. He was an attractive man, in his forties but slim and fit. His eyes were dark and intelligent. Was this just casual conversation, or potentially something more?

Although John was mostly interested in women, he had found himself attracted to some men over the years. They had been good experiences, so he was open to exploring things when he felt the zing of chemistry with someone.

"Afghanistan. I was on med evac teams mostly." John replied, not minding now that Mike was late and that Greg seemed in no hurry to rejoin his group.

Greg's eyebrows rose, and he seemed impressed. "That's when you are in those huge helicopters, picking up injured soldiers from the field and treating them while flying back?"

John nodded, pleased that Greg seemed to know the basics of his old role. "Yes, it was like a flying ambulance. I worked with a flight nurse and paramedics."

"And you got injured while on a run?" Greg asked, sipping his drink.

Not bothering to correct Greg's assumption that his leg had been hit, as he didn't want to discuss the psychosomatic injury, John nodded. "Enemy fire as we loaded a patient into the Chinook. I don't remember a lot after getting shot."

The policeman's hand went to the left side of his chest. "I know what you mean. I took a bullet during my rookie year, and the shock hits you pretty quick."

It felt good to talk to someone here in England who had been in dangerous situations, who could relate. They continued talking until a flustered Mike rushed in.

"John! So sorry to keep you waiting so long." Mike apologized as he flopped down in the barstool beside John.

Clapping a hand on his back, John smiled at his old friend. "It's OK. I was talking with Greg here."

Greg nodded, standing up straighter. "Well, John, it's been good talking with you like this. Say, we have an occasional case we need medical expertise on. Would I be able to contact you for that maybe?"

"Yeah, sure. Or if you ever just want to grab a beer or something, I'd be up for that too." John pulled out his mobile, and they exchanged contact information. Greg was an interesting, attractive man, and John was trying to develop friendships.

When Greg left, Mike arched an eyebrow towards John. "Hmmm... Am I wrong to think I was maybe interrupting something there?"

John blushed a little, dropping his gaze to his beer. They had been friends long enough for Mike to know his orientation. "You weren't interrupting, but there's potential for something there, maybe. I'm not sure if Greg leans that way."

This was always the tricky part of relationships. Was Greg just being friendly, or was he interested in more with John? John liked Greg, and was really OK with either possibility. Hopefully, they would see each other more and let things develop naturally.

\---

**Running late. Want to meet at my crime scene instead of the pub? It's not far away. - GL.**

John read over the text from Greg as he pulled on his jacket. Over the past few weeks, they had met up for an after work drink several times, at a pub halfway between Scotland Yard and John's clinic. They found conversation flowed easily between them.

**Sure. It will be interesting seeing you at work, bossing everyone around. -JW**

His reply seemed to amuse Greg, and they joked back and forth a bit. Greg sent him the address and John headed that direction from the clinic, walking slowly with the cane today.

It was easy to find the crime scene, with several police cars surrounding it with their flashing lights and yellow crime scene tape cordoning off the area. John stood outside the perimeter, looking for Greg.

"Well, fancy seeing you here, Doctor." A woman drawled as she walked towards him.

"Hi Sally." John smiled at the pretty officer, ducking under the police tape when she raised it for him to enter. Greg mentioned Sally and the other people in his team in conversation often enough that John felt he knew them. Plus, occasionally they ran into his co-workers at the pub and shared a round.

Sally's eyes scanned down John quickly, not missing the cane in his hand. "Greg should be done soon. He's just over by the ambulance, trying to knock some sense into somebody." She waved John towards the medical vehicle.

Walking down the side of the ambulance, John heard something that made him freeze, his heart pounding.

"I do not need to go to the hospital. I am fine." 

It was the voice. Him. _Sherlock._ John would know that voice anywhere, even after all these months. He had replayed their short telephone conversation in his head far, far too many times. 

And he was here. Here. Right around the corner, talking to Greg. John could hear them arguing in quiet tones, both trying to firmly assert their points. John could walk around the corner and finally, finally, put a face to the voice that had haunted him so long.

Taking a deep breath, John let it out slowly, trying to calm himself and appear normal. He walked around the corner.

Greg was standing at the back of the ambulance, looming over a man perched on the back entrance of the vehicle, feet resting against the pavement. From the light spilling out of the ambulance, John could see he had dark, wavy hair, pale skin, and was wearing a long black coat, the collar turned up. He was holding something against his head, and as John moved closer he could see it was an ice pack. 

"Concussions can be serious, Sherlock. Please just go to the emergency to be assessed, all right?" Greg cajoled the injured man, glancing towards John to acknowledge his arrival.

Sherlock shook his head, and gave a pained grimace. "No hospital. No emergency room." His deep baritone sent a shiver through John, standing close enough now to see those full lips forming the words.

Greg sighed and looked at John, his eyes brightening with an idea. "Would you let Dr. Watson here examine you at least?" He gave his friend an apologetic glance over Sherlock's head.

John's breath caught at the unexpected request, and it was even worse when Sherlock turned his direction, his light-coloured eyes scanning John from head to toe in a heartbeat or two. His eyes were sharp and all-seeing.

"Fine." Sherlock huffed, clearly bored with the whole argument, and wanting to get this over with.

John nodded, swallowing hard as he stepped closer, and leaned his cane against the ambulance. He took the ice pack from Sherlock's hand, and set it down, tilting his head towards the light and parting his hair to see the injury better.

"What happened here?" John asked Greg, feeling more comfortable meeting the eyes of his friend than this fascinating stranger's. He tried to keep calm and professional as he listened to Greg's explanation of how Sherlock had gotten injured and did his medical review.

Stepping back, he let his hands drop away from Sherlock. Already, he resisted the urge to touch those soft, dark curls some more. "Um...it is a pretty serious knock to the head, Sherlock. If you are not going to the hospital, do you have a friend or family member to stay with for the next 48 hours? You need to be monitored for complications."

Sherlock let out a dismissive scoff. "I live on my own. I'll be fine. If complications develop, I'll be sure to get into the hospital."

"The symptoms can include confusion and problems in making decisions. If complications arise, you may not be able to take appropriate action." John said firmly, looking towards Greg for support. There was no way he'd let Sherlock go home alone. It was a serious medical risk.

Greg seemed to understand. "I think you mentioned that your parents don't live in London. What about your brother?"

An interesting expression, one of disgust and horror, flashed over Sherlock's features, making Greg chuckle.

"Yes, I can't see him acting the part of a nurse maid. What about your housekeeper? You seem on good terms with her and she's quite attentive to you." Greg commented, clearly knowing Sherlock quite well, and familiar with his home.

Standing up slowly, Sherlock put a bracing hand against the side of the vehicle when he wobbled slightly. "Landlady. She's on a cruise with her sister. Greek Isles." He stood up straighter, jerking the long coat into position. "Lestrade, I will be fine. I'll even text you tomorrow to let you know I made it through the night." His tone was dismissive.

"I'll do it then. I'm off the next couple days anyways." John found himself blurting, and flushed slightly when two sets of surprised eyes swung his way. Luckily it was dark out, and hopefully they wouldn't notice. He didn't know what possessed him to have made the offer so impulsively, but it did make sense, actually. He was off the next little while. "Either go to the hospital or let me monitor you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's pale eyes swept over John again, and he gave a curt nod. "Fine then." He strode off, his coat swirling behind him. 

John barely had time to wave goodbye to Greg before he rushed to catch up to Sherlock. The tall man was already getting into the back of a black cab, and John jumped in beside him. 

Sherlock leaned forward to the driver to give a Baker Street address.

They were about to pull away when there was a loud knock on the window near John, causing him to jump. He unrolled the window, seeing Greg standing there, slightly out of breath. 

"You forgot this." Greg held out John's cane, and John took it from him, feeling embarrassed. 

He said goodbye to Greg, and rolled up the window as the taxi pulled away.

"Told you it was psychosomatic, John." Sherlock smirked, as he turned up his collar and settled back against the taxi seat.

 _Oh fuck. He remembers the phone call and knows it's me._ John's heart was pounding as he tried to breathe normally, speeding through the London streets to this stranger's apartment. The place just the two of them would be together for the next two days. 

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck..._

\---

Disclaimer: I own nothing. 

A/N: Wow! Thanks for the very welcoming response to the first chapter.  
I don't normally post chapters this quickly, but this second one flowed quite well when I was writing it.


	3. The Flat

Sherlock Holmes was the most frustrating gorgeous irritating beguiling thing ever to walk the earth.

Breath-takingly gorgeous as he sat up on the side of the bed for concussion checks, his hair messy and his eyes going from sleepy to super-alert and all-seeing in seconds. John tried to focus on running through the physical and mental checks, but internally, he was admiring the way the early morning soft light seemed to make his skin glow. And it let John see his eyes finally in full light, starting the internal debate about what color they were. Green, with flecks of gold, or more aqua?

Frustrating, as he was the worst patient ever, complaining and questioning every order John gave. Concussions could make people more irritable and moody, but from the brief sample John had had of him before, he suspected that was Sherlock's normal state. Did he go out of his way to be so abrasive and surly, or did it just come naturally?

They barely made it through the night, with John rousing Sherlock every two hours for checks. Now they were up and both cranky from the hard night.

"I'm making some tea and toast." John commented, walking into the kitchen and carefully keeping his eyes averted from the experiments. 

"I don't want any." Sherlock said, lying on the sofa. 

John let out an impatient huff, and made the simple breakfast anyways. Carrying the plate and mug out to the living room, he placed them on the coffee table. "Your body needs energy to heal. If you follow my instructions, you will feel better sooner." He said it quietly, without heat, and went back to the kitchen to make his own toast.

By the time he came out with his own meal, Sherlock had eaten half a slice. He didn't comment, just silently cheering to himself as he picked up his phone to check his email.

If he had thought the night was hard, the day was ten times worse. Sherlock was restless and bored, and not afraid to show it.

"No, Sherlock." John said calmly, seeing him reaching for his laptop. "No screens." He didn't even look up from his phone.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock tried to pick up a book from the floor. "No books, Sherlock." John said, trying to keep his tone professional.

"But I'm so bored, John! Am I just supposed to sit here? This is torture." Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms over his slim chest.

John lowered his phone, looking at the man sitting with his legs crossed on the sofa, tense and restless. "If you hurt your knee, you would need to rest it for it to heal, right? Well, you hurt your brain. That's why you have the persistent headaches. And you need physical and cognitive rest for it to heal."

"That's just bollocks." Sherlock grumbled, not looking convinced at all. 

Rolling his eyes, John tried not to keep his cool. "You could delay recovery by two to five times if you don't stick to less demanding activities for your brain. So no reading, no computer, no telly."

Groaning, Sherlock ran his hands over his face and then got up to pace around the room. Finally, he picked up a violin John hadn't even seen amongst the clutter, and faced out towards the window as he played.

The music was shockingly expressive and beautiful. That it came from Sherlock made it even more of a surprise.

From thinking and wondering about this man for months, to being stuck together in his apartment was still a hard thing to adjust to. John was just taking it all in, trying to make sense of who Sherlock was, and why he found him so intriguing.

Physically, he was similar to what John had guessed from his voice. About six feet tall, he seemed taller due to being so slim. But he wasn't skinny or bony, just all sleek muscles. His skin was pale, contrasting well with his dark hair.

John hadn't expected him to be so attractive, and often found he had to look away from his face so he wouldn't seem to be staring. Those prominent cheekbones, and full lips. The way his eyes seemed to glow when he had an interesting idea.

Lost in his own world, John hadn't even realized Sherlock had stopped playing until he sat back down on the sofa.

"Bored." Sherlock sighed, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling.

John sat up straighter in his chair. "Sherlock, how did you know all those things about me over the phone?" It was a question he'd been pondering for ages.

Light green eyes rested on John's face, no doubt reading every emotion John was trying to hide. "Just close observation and deduction, John. It's even easier with the visual cues."

John felt stripped bare. What tiny things did he show without realizing it? "Why were you working on that phone line anyways? You don't seem the do-gooder type."

Sherlock gave a small grin in acknowledgement. "It was research for a case. There was a spike in suicides in young men around that time, and phone records showed they had all called the hotline within ten days of their demise."

"But don't most troubled people call lines like that at some point? I don't get the connection." John furrowed his brow, trying to understand.

The tall man shrugged. "I hypothesized that someone could be encouraging the callers to act, instead of discouraging them. Working there I was able to assess the workers and the controls in place." 

"I called back there, asking for you." John said, grabbing the opportunity to mention this. 

Sherlock gave him a raised eyebrow. "To add another complaint form to the pile Ashley is still working through?"

John couldn't hold back a laugh at that. The sod knew his behavior had caused an uproar, but didn't care. "No, actually." John met Sherlock's eyes, holding them. "To sincerely thank you for getting me out of the rut I was in then. You were a bit harsh, but it's what I needed, obviously."

Sherlock's eyes widened just the tiniest bit in surprise. If John hadn't been watching closely, he would have missed it. "Oh, well, glad I helped at least one person while I worked there." He got up. "How about we go out?"

Copying his motions, John patted his pockets to make sure his mobile and wallet were in place. "Ok, maybe a walk and stop by Tesco's for some groceries?"

Sherlock made a bit of a face at that, but slipped his long, black coat on and was soon running down the stairs.

\---

The day was creeping along very slowly. Being around Sherlock was a lot like a moody four year old. He complained of boredom and railed against everything he wasn't allowed to do. It got so bad John printed off a list of permissible activities for concussion patients he found on the internet, things that would not supposedly over-tax his brain. John grinned a little to himself at items like knitting and beading before he passed the list to Sherlock.

Cooking and cleaning were on the list, so when they got back from the store, he taught Sherlock how to make soup. There were a lot of vegetables to chop up for it, and then he got Sherlock to wash the dishes. It showed how desperately bored Sherlock was that he did them with only low level grumbling.

Afterwards, he pushed Sherlock towards the bedroom. "Go, have a nap." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but complied. That was a sign that he was perhaps feeling the effects of the injury.

It was a relief when the bedroom door shut behind him. John could breathe easier, and settled onto the sofa to watch a comedy on his laptop. 

\---

John woke up, feeling disorientated. Opening his eyes, he realized he was on the sofa and must have fallen asleep. The interrupted sleep of the previous night must have caught up with him. 

It was wonderfully quiet in the flat still, and he assumed Sherlock must have been sleeping still. Sitting up, he rubbed his hands over his face and stretched his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders in a way that had become second nature. Stretches and exercise he did daily to keep the full range of motion in the damaged shoulder.

But then, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, that skin-shrinking feeling of awareness. Looking up, he jumped a little to see Sherlock in the armchair, legs crossed, and his eyes trained on John.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. Why are you sitting there, staring at me?" John shook his head. He noticed his laptop on the coffee table was closed. Had Sherlock come out here, found him napping, and closed the laptop?

Sherlock lifted a pad of paper from his lap, waving it at John, before he lowered it to rest on his thigh. "I was sketching you."

John's eyebrows shot up. "What? Why?" The idea of Sherlock sitting there, his eyes travelling over his body to catch every little detail, when John was unaware and asleep was very disconcerting.

"It's on the permitted list, and we actually had the materials around for it." Sherlock pointed his pencil towards the print out on the coffee table. 

Well, John couldn't argue with that. If it kept Sherlock occupied and not complaining, he was all for it. He nodded, and moved the cushions around to lie down on his back. 

He tried to fall back asleep, but knowing Sherlock was looking at him frequently was too distracting. 

"Quit squirming around. You need to stay still for me to draw you." Sherlock said, exasperation evident in his tone. 

John sighed. "I guess I need something to occupy me if I can't fall asleep again. How about you tell me about something? I'll just shut my eyes and listen". Grabbing the throw, he pulled it over his body. With any luck, hearing Sherlock talking would lull him into another nap.

"Tell you about something? Like what?" Sherlock asked, sounding unimpressed with the idea. 

John searched for something Sherlock would enjoy talking about. "How about you tell me about your experiments? The ones you have now and previous ones?"

It seemed to work. John settled in, comfortable with his cushions and blanket, closing his eyes. The things Sherlock was describing, with apparent enthusiasm, were pretty gruesome, talk of freezing toes to measure hypothermia effects and whipping corpses to study post-mortem bruising. He found he could let the meaning of the words go, and just let the sounds of Sherlock's rich baritone wash over him. 

For so long, he had remembered Sherlock's voice, replaying it over and over in his mind. It had been the only thing he'd known about this mysterious, fascinating stranger. To hear that voice again, now, so close, sent a shiver of awareness down John's body.

Since last night, John had not only met this stranger, but had also touched him many times. Ran his hands through his dark curls, feeling for the edges of the bump on his head and checking for tenderness. Touched his long-fingered hands several times for the neurological tests, testing his grip strength. Tilted his face up to the light to make sure his pupils were symmetrical and that his eyes tracked his finger motions. 

They were routine things he had done with many, many patients. But there was a part of him that was taking Sherlock in as he did that, keeping his professional demeanor while this other part noticed that his skin felt smooth and warm. Noticed how different it was to touch the dark, silky curls compared to his own straight blond strands. That part tried to pick out all the colors in his unusual eyes.

That other part was putting together all those pieces now, along with the sound of his voice now. Filling in so many of the blanks of his mysterious stranger. And it was curious about the unknown parts still.

What would Sherlock's voice be like if John did some of the things he was starting to be tempted to do? What if it started with John checking the bump on his head, but then John slid his hands through those curls, pulling Sherlock's head back? Looking down at his upturned face and seeing his beautiful eyes darken in arousal. Dipping his head down to brush his lips over those full ones, feeling his breath catch. Feeling him pulling to free his hair from John's grasp to push closer, deepening the kiss, wanting more. What would it be like to hear that lush voice roughened with desire, and calling out his name in need?

"John... John..." The voice said his name, but the tone totally clashed with the sensual scene in his head. John pulled himself back to the present, realizing that Sherlock was calling his name. 

He turned his head to Sherlock, looking to see if something was wrong. But Sherlock was still in his chair, paper pad on his bent knee. His sharp eyes were raking over John's face and he flushed at what he might see there.

Turning his face away towards the back of the sofa, John tried to slow his breathing, go back to normal. This was so, so embarrassing. To let the sensual daydream go on so long, to get aroused picturing it all while listening to Sherlock's voice. At least the throw hid his body's reaction, except his faster breathing and flushed cheeks. Maybe he could bluster his way out of this.

He sat up quickly, bunching the throw in his lap. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I drifted off a little there."

"Are you feeling OK, John? You look a little...unsettled." Sherlock said slowly, his eyes watching John closely.

John felt a bit overwhelmed by it all. Being with Sherlock all these hours, being watched by him so closely. He needed a break, some space. A chance to get his perspective back. Sherlock was his patient for these two days, and that was it.

"Actually, I need to get some air. I think I might pop back to my place. Have a quick shower and change my clothes. I think you'll be OK on your own for an hour or so." John said quickly, making his voice upbeat.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed slightly. "You can shower here and borrow some of my clothes, John."

Shaking his head, John got up, still holding the throw in front of him. "No, no. It will be easier just to have my own clothes." John made sure he was turned away from Sherlock before he dropped the throw back on the sofa and walked fast to where his coat hung. He drew it on quickly, happy that it reached mid-thigh. "Plus, I'll pick up a book I'm reading."

"Wait!" Sherlock's tone was urgent, and stopped John as he tried to step out of the door.

John turned, looking at Sherlock with a bit of exasperation. He had been so close to escape. "What?"

Sherlock stood up, looking a bit rumpled in his silk dressing robe. "I don't even have your mobile number. What if I have a medical emergency while you are gone?"

Somehow John doubted that was the real reason Sherlock had wanted his number before he left, but John had no arguments against it. 

Grabbing the pad and pencil from his hands, John wrote his phone number down quickly. His eyes flicked to the drawing, surprised at how well Sherlock had captured John's profile. 

"Your drawing is good." John said softly, passing the items back to Sherlock before he spun around and left.

\---

It wasn't long before he was at the bedsit. The hot shower felt good on his achy back, and he soaped up, thinking back on what just happened.

He got the feeling Sherlock knew something was going on, but couldn't quite pin it down. He was a bit surprised at John's abrupt escape.

Did Sherlock really not recognize that John was aroused? Sure, it was a strange context, but surely Sherlock had lovers in the past who gave him a heated look out of the blue before pushing him against the nearest wall for a good snog. Or ten. Fuck, that mouth just begged to be kissed right, and John loved kissing. 

Was Sherlock even into men? There were no clear signs either way, and John had only seen him arguing with Lestrade. Never seen him around other people. Surely, looking like he did, he had offers from both sexes. Could take home whomever he choose. But he hadn't brought up a name for someone to stay with when Lestrade asked him. So, he wasn't in a relationship currently.

All these thoughts had made John hard again, his arousal rushing back. It would be best if he took the pressure off now. Maybe it was just sexual tension that made John react so strongly before. He hadn't had a good shag in ages.

\---

It was about two hours later when John returned. It felt good to be showered, shaved and in fresh clothes, carrying a small knapsack with his toiletries, fresh underwear and a book. He took a deep breath, steeling himself before he climbed the steps to the flat.

He knocked softly, not wanting to disturb Sherlock if he was resting. The door was unlocked and he entered, looking around. It was strangely quiet and still.

Putting his bag down and hanging up his coat, John walked quietly to Sherlock's bedroom to check on him. But the room was empty, and so was the bathroom. Had he left? Where would he have gone?

Going into the kitchen to make some tea, John stopped in his tracks. The counters were cleared off, the dishes done, and even the microscope was tucked away on the window sill instead of sitting on the table. Opening the fridge, there was only food inside. Every bit of Sherlock's experiments were gone.

Obviously, Sherlock had been busy while John was away. But why had he done all this and where was he now? He was still a man with a serious head injury.

Pulling out his phone, John huffed in annoyance that he hadn't gotten Sherlock's phone number when he'd left his. He texted Lestrade instead.

**Hey Greg. How's your day going? -JW**

While waiting for a response, he put the kettle on and pulled out the tea things. 

**I should be the one checking in on you, not the other way around! How is HRH doing? -GL**

Hmmm... Well, Sherlock wasn't at Scotland Yard then. 

**He seems to be doing well. I popped out for a bit, and he's not here now. Any idea where he may have gone? -JW**

It was a bit embarrassing to admit it, but he was concerned.

**You *lost* Sherlock? ;-) - GL**

John chuckled at the text.

**Well....yeah. Do you have his mobile number? -JW**

**And aren't you some big shot police inspector? Should you really be using emoticons? -JW**

The only response he got was Sherlock's number and an emoticon that was sticking its tongue out. 

**Very mature, Detective Inspector Lestrade. -JW**

\----

John sat down on the sofa with his tea, entering Sherlock's number into his contacts. He was right about to text Sherlock when he heard footsteps on the stairs. 

"Where did you go?" John asked, looking Sherlock over thoroughly. 

Hanging up his long coat, Sherlock gave a little shrug. "Talking to you about my experiments made me realize I wouldn't have a chance to work on them while I was recovering. Too stimulating...mentally."

John nodded slowly, agreeing but surprised Sherlock thought of it. "So, did you just throw them all away?"

Giving John a little look of horror at the idea, Sherlock shook his head as he walked into the kitchen. "No, no...just dropped them off with Molly at the morgue. It took a bit of time to instruct her on each one."

He returned with his own mug of tea, and sat down in the armchair. John scanned him for signs of over-exertion, but he seemed fine.

"I just got back myself and was a little worried that you weren't here. I even got your number from Lestrade and was just about to text you." John took a sip of his tea, watching Sherlock over the brim, and could have sworn there was a flash of a pleased smile before Sherlock schooled his expression.

Sherlock set down his empty cup. "Well, how about we play a board game before supper? I think I have a old version of Cluedo in one of the shelves."

With a little nod, John got up and found the old, dusty box. 

\---

"I think we should play another round of Cluedo." Sherlock said as he hung up the tea towel.

John let out a laugh. "Ah, no, we are never playing that again." He carried out a mug of tea to the sofa.

Sherlock followed him, carrying his own mug. "Why not?"

"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that's why!" But he couldn't help but laugh as he said it, remembering the silly argument they had earlier over the game.

The detective was still not letting the matter drop. "Well, it's the only possible solution."

John had grown up playing the game with Harry and friends. He knew it inside and out. "It's not in the rules!"

"Well, then, the rules are wrong!" Sherlock insisted.

John looked down at the print out of acceptable activities and wrote Cluedo on the list of things not allowed. "There. Obviously Cluedo is too much for you right now if you're going to get this worked up about it."

His actions got him a glare and Sherlock grumbling to himself as he turned away slightly.

John thought back on the last 24 hours with this strange man, and had to let out a chuckle. Sherlock had been surprisingly good most of the time, usually doing what John asked with a few grumbles and the occasional complaint about being bored. He had helped John with the cooking and cleaning up for both lunch and dinner, and had eaten his meals, although his portions were small.

He could tell Sherlock's head was still bothering him, and he took the headache pills when John offered them. Maybe Sherlock was behaving because he wanted to get better as fast as he could. John was just glad he seemed to be taking this seriously and doing what he should.

It was hard to fill the time though. Funny how reliant we all are now on electronics to entertain us. Sherlock couldn't work on his computer, research cases, read books or any of the other normal things that kept that incredible mind occupied. Cooking, doing dishes, clearing away his experiments were all things to just fill the time.

John picked up the list, looking over the activities again. "Hmmmm...Sherlock, I have an idea."

Turning, Sherlock saw what he was holding and scowled. "You aren't going to suggest origami now, are you?" He shuddered slightly in disgust at the idea.

"Well, no, unless you get bored enough to give it a go." John laughed at the image that popped into his mind of Sherlock making paper flowers. "You seem to like challenges though, games. And I'm only here another day."

Sherlock's brows furrowed at that. "And your point of all this is...?" 

"Unfortunately, it can take weeks, or longer for you to recover fully from a concussion. So, I thought we could gametize this." John waved the paper. 

"Gametize." Sherlock repeated, not looking familiar with the word.

John gave a chuckle and grabbed his laptop. "It grew out of video game culture, but you can basically make a game out of anything. Reward points for good behaviors, penalize bad behaviors."

"Points for what? Earning points for what?" Sherlock seemed to be turning the idea over in his mind.

John shrugged. "Well, for every 1000 points, you can 'level up'. Make up names for each level if you want. 'Jedi Apprentice' or whatever you want."

Sherlock scoffed and got up, walking slowly around the room. "Jedi Apprentice." He moved a few things around on his bookcase. 

Turning around, he came back and perched on the arm of the chair. "OK, we could do this, but I think there should be a reward at the end for the winner."

John was confused at that comment. "We? Winner?" He had just thought of designing a challenge of things for Sherlock to do, as a way to keep him on track for his recovery when John wasn't around to nag him.

Sherlock settled down in the chair, leaning forward to look at John intently. "You said yourself that 'anything' can be 'gametized'. We just have to each make a list of good and bad behaviors and assign points to them. Surely there are things you could work on? You didn't call me in the middle of the night all those months ago because you were in a great place in your life."

It hurt to have Sherlock bring up that original phone call. That had been a low, low time in John's life. John stood up, gathering up their empty mugs and carrying them into the kitchen. He just needed to be away from those all-seeing eyes for a minute. 

John slowly washed the mugs, thinking about what Sherlock had just said. Yes, there were things he hadn't been that motivated about, things he wanted to change. He was in a much better place than he had been a few months ago, but he could be better. Wanted to work on being better.

"John," Sherlock said softly, standing a few steps away. When John glanced his way, he had an unsure expression, like he thought he'd done something wrong, but wasn't quite sure what. It made him look younger, more vulnerable. 

Letting out a breath, he felt the tension in his shoulders easing. John turned around, leaning back against the counter. "OK, Sherlock. We'll design our own games, and the winner will get a reward. Any idea what it should be?"

"Maybe the loser buys the winner a fancy dinner out?" Sherlock suggested. 

John imagined dressing up and going out to a fancy restaurant with Sherlock, no doubt looking male-model delicious in a bespoke suit. It didn't sound like a reward. It sounded like a date. But Sherlock didn't mean it that way. Pity.

"That sounds like a great idea. Now let's go work out the details." John pinned on a smile and walked out to the sofa. 

\----

-Disclosure: I own nothing.

A/N: Thanks again for the reads, kudos & comments! I'm obviously enjoying writing this, as I normally don't write this fast. haha

Concussion Info: I'm not a doctor. The concussion info comes from online sources, but please consult with your own doctor if you have a head injury.

Concussion Game idea comes from concussiongame dot tumblr dot com. 


	4. The Game

“Right, anything else you want to add or change?” John asked, reading over the spreadsheet he had been creating.

Sherlock looked down at the concussion print out. “Well, you can put origami on there, but you know I’m never going to do it.”

Chuckling, John typed fast. “I bet if I assign enough points to it, you would.” He put 20 points for a half hour of the activity. Most other activities only earned 5 to 15 points. “OK, well, I’m going to put dating on my list. Do you want it on your’s as well?” 

“Dating?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed like it was a word he’d never heard of before.

John rolled his eyes at the detective. “You know, dating? Where two people who like each other go out and have fun.” 

Sherlock looked like John had suggested taking a dog-grooming course. “Dull.”

Here was the opening John had been waiting for to ask Sherlock about his romantic interests. He trod carefully. “You don’t want a girlfriend, then?”

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area.” Sherlock said dismissively.

The answer… was Sherlock saying what John thought he was saying? He tried to keep his tone neutral and bravely pushed forward. He had to know for sure. “Oh, right. D’you want to have a boyfriend?”

Sherlock looked round at him sharply, his eyes searching. 

_Oh shit! Did I offend him?_ John rushed to soothe things over, just in case. “Which is fine, by the way.” Very, VERY, fine. 

He got a bit of a scoff for his efforts. “I know it’s fine.” Sherlock said, his tone betraying nothing.

John smiled, trying to convey that he’s OK with whatever orientation Sherlock had. “So, you want a boyfriend then?” He knew he should drop this, but curiosity forced him to ask it.

“No.” Sherlock seemed distant, his answer clear.

 _Well, shit._ Disappointment crashed over John like a large wave. Well, he’d pushed and pushed for a definitive answer, and now he had it. John tried to give a friendly smile, act normal, but he could tell it was a little crooked. Tight and awkward. “Right, OK. You’re unattached. Like me.” _Oh, shit. What was he saying? Move on._ John scrambled for something else to say, another topic, but he was coming up blank. “Fine. Good.”

Sherlock was giving him an assessing look, and John felt terrified at what he might be reading there. “John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any ...”

 _Oh crap, now Sherlock thinks I’m coming onto him._ “No.” John interrupted, his voice not very firm. He cleared his throat, trying again, wanting to fix this. “No, I’m not asking… No.”

Clearly Sherlock wasn’t interested in getting involved with anyone right now. Maybe he’d been burned so badly by past relationships that he considered himself ‘married to his work’ and didn’t want to be in any type of romantic relationship. The last thing John wanted was for Sherlock to think he’d volunteered to stay here this weekend for any reason but his concussion. 

Besides, even if Sherlock wasn’t interested in a romantic relationship, it didn’t change the fact that John was still intrigued by Sherlock, and wanted to get to know him better. 

John did the only thing he could think of to show Sherlock that John wasn’t obsessing over him. “I think I’ll give 15 points for going on a date.” If he went out with other people, hopefully Sherlock would relax and forget this whole conversation. Let things go back to normal.

\---

They worked out the rest of the details of their game. Sherlock could earn points for activities that supported his concussion recovery like taking naps, regular meals and short walks. He could also earn them for not doing certain things for the whole day, like not reading or not using the computer. Penalties were taken for activities like drinking alcohol, smoking, and complaining about what he couldn’t do. 

John’s list was personalized to his goals for the next month or so. Things like getting back into dating again, exercising and eating right to lose a few pounds he’d gained during his recovery, and finding a better place to live. 

It was late by the time John printed out their final tally sheets to track their points each day. Yawning, John bid Sherlock goodnight.

\---

“John, you look exhausted.” Sherlock commented as John did the 4 am concussion check on him, his eyes much sharper than John’s were at this hour.

Yawning, John just shrugged. The second night on the sofa was making his back and bad shoulder ache, and he wasn’t sleeping very soundly. At least he’d be back in his own bed the next night. Maybe he’d go to bed extra early so he was back to normal for work Monday.

Sherlock gave an impatient huff. “Sleep here.”

“What?” John’s eyes widened, locking in on Sherlock’s. Had he just said what he thought he had?

Looking over at the unused half of the bed, Sherlock nodded that way. “You can see it’s a large bed. It won’t bother me if you sleep here. Just set your alarm for the next check and at least have a few hours of solid sleep, John.”

The bed looked so tempting. Room to stretch out and be comfortable. Big pillows and a thick down comforter. In his sleepy state, it looked like heaven.

John found himself nodding, and Sherlock smiled widely, pleased. He pulled the covers back from that side of the bed and John crawled in, practically asleep from the moment he fully laid down. He vaguely heard Sherlock’s chuckle as the comforter settled around him.

\---

John awoke to the morning sun, warming him. He felt disorientated, like he had been yesterday on the sofa after his nap. 

But there were a few major differences.

Today, he felt warm, comfortable and well rested. And he also seemed to be cuddled up with Sherlock. 

The man who seemed so cool and distant most of the time certainly wasn’t like that now. John was lying on his side, and Sherlock was curled up against his back, the front of his thighs against the back of John’s. His arm was around John’s chest, holding him close. John could even feel his breath against the back of his neck. 

John really, really wanted to just relax and cuddle back into his embrace. It had been so long since he had slept with anyone, and Sherlock felt so good, smelled so good. John just wanted to sink into him and forget himself, lose himself in the sensation. 

But this was Sherlock. The man who only a few hours ago had made it abundantly clear he had no interest in relationships. No interest in John. He had moved closer as he slept. It meant nothing.

Not wanting Sherlock to be embarrassed, or to set things back between them even more than they already were, John decided to move away. If he just shifted slowly, little by little, he could separate them and Sherlock wouldn’t even know that they had been like this. 

He eased a few inches away slowly, trying not to jostle Sherlock, when the tall man let out a long exhale. His arms tightened, dragging John back against him, even closer than before, and let out a low, pleased hum near John's ear.

 _Fuck._ Just feeling Sherlock's long, warm frame pressed up so close to him, surrounding him, sent every nerve in his body on high alert. Awareness tingled along his skin, leaving John feeling a bit breathless at the instant reaction. But the low-pitched hum, that sound of pleasure and contentment, just did it. John was immediately hard, aching, and had to press his lips together tight to not let out a groan of his own.

Even worse was that Sherlock had a large hand draped against his stomach. If it shifted an inch or two lower, he would feel how affected John was by his nearness. 

The idea of Sherlock deliberately reaching down, cupping John, while the lips so close to his bare neck descended to kiss along his nape, flashed into John's mind. It was just too, too much. 

John scrambled away, rolling out of the bed, and was at the door before he heard a sleepy-voiced "John?" emerging from that tempting mound of bedding and tall, sexy but unavailable man.

He paused, only half-turning, knowing his underwear wouldn't hide his reaction at all. "Just going to the bathroom. Go back to sleep." Before Sherlock could respond, John escaped.

Judging by the amount of light in the apartment, John knew it was very early still, but there was no way he could get back into that bed. Grabbing his knapsack, he went to the bathroom and had a long shower. And for the second time, felt a bit ashamed as he took care of himself, too vivid images of kissing Sherlock while rocking together enough to send him over the edge.

 

\---

“Sherlock.” A heavy-set older man with a dark beard shook hands enthusiastically with Sherlock, and led them over to a table by the window. “Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free.” He set menus down in front of them. “On the house, for you and for your date.”

John cringed a little at that, and rushed to correct the error, not wanting to make Sherlock uncomfortable. “I’m not his date.” 

The effort seemed to pass by Sherlock’s attention. He introduced John to Angelo, explaining how he’d cleared him of triple murder in an old case. They settled at the table, reviewing the menus. Angelo came back to take their order, giving John a little thumbs up gesture as he put a lit candle on their table.

Sherlock was pulling out his tally sheet, smoothing it down and looking far too pleased with himself. John pulled the wrinkled sheet from his jacket pocket, and they traded them.

"How the hell did you get over 130 points each day?" John asked, squinting at Sherlock's messy hand writing in the candlelight. The atmosphere of this Italian restaurant was more for romance than report analysis.

Sherlock's self-satisfied grin held nothing back. "Just stuck to the plan, John." 

John shook his head. Sherlock had check marks in almost every box to earn points. He thought of the few measly things he'd checked off on his own list, and swore to get going in more things. 

"Well, I'm glad to see you are sticking to a sleep schedule and eating regularly. I don't mind that you are beating me so badly at this if it means you are taking care of your recovery." John took a sip of red wine. "How does your head feel? Aching any less?"

Sherlock sipped his ice water. "No, it doesn't seem any worse, but not really much better either."

He seemed a bit disgruntled at that. He had been doing everything right, and it was too bad the symptoms didn't support it. 

John reached over and gave Sherlock's forearm a light squeeze, but didn't let the comforting touch linger. Even that little touch, through a couple layers of fabric, sent a spark of awareness through John.

"What's this?" Sherlock pointed down at John's sheet.

Taking it from him to examine closer, John chuckled. "Oh, I earned some points for taking Sarah from work out for a movie."

Sherlock didn't look impressed. "You earn points for going to the cinema?"

"No, Sherlock. For going on a date. We're going out tomorrow night too. Maybe I could bring her here. The food smells fantastic." John smiled up as Angelo arrived with their orders, placing generous portions of fresh pasta with Italian sausage and a thick tomato sauce in front of John.

While John was showering praise on Angelo for how good the meal looked, he missed the slight frown that pulled at Sherlock's lips.

\---

"Three of a Kind." Mike laid his cards down and gave a pleased chuckle as he slid the pile of chips towards him.

Greg groaned, looking over at John. "Did you know your friend was a card shark when you invited me over? I just got divorced! I can't afford this."

"Oh, quit your whining. We're only playing for the pot. You can't lose more than the £20 you put in." John rolled his eyes at his friend, a smile softening his words. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Sherlock giving him a considering look, and gazed back at him, raising his eyebrows in a silent "what's up?" query. 

Sherlock just shook his head in return and picked up the new cards he was dealt. He was new to playing poker, and so far had been playing conservatively, his gaze likely reading every little tell on the other players' faces. It would be hard to bluff him.

Greg turned towards Sherlock with an easy grin. "So when are you going to quit all this shamming that you're ill and help me out with some cases? I got this great one the other day with twins who -"

"Stop! Stop right there. Sherlock is on cognitive rest until the headaches go away. He might look normal, but I assure you he isn't." John broke in, wanting to keep Greg from describing enough of a case to tempt Sherlock back to work. 

Greg laughed at that, his brown eyes warm as he gave John a conspiratorial look. "Well, I know he's not normal, and likely never will be. But we like him as he is, right?"

John had to grin back in agreement, glancing Sherlock's way to include him in their harmless teasing. He was giving a bit of a haughty look in return, which just made Greg and John chuckle harder.

Pushing his chair back, Greg got up. “Back in a minute or two.” He headed off in the direction of the bathroom. 

“I still can’t get over that you two know each other.” Mike took a long sip of his beer. “Sherlock Holmes friends with a bloke I knew from uni.” 

Nodding in agreement, John still found it a bit funny. He had suggested getting a few friends together for a poker night, and Sherlock had been bored enough to agree to it, much to John’s surprise. Greg had been a no-brainer, and when he’d brought up Mike Stamford, it turned out that Sherlock knew him from hanging around St. Bart’s hospital quite often. 

Sherlock looked between the two men, a speculative look on his face. “What was John like back then, Mike?” 

The chubby doctor shared a glance with John. “A pretty good student. A very good drinker. And never seemed to let a bird get by without at least giving her a go.” 

John shook his head, taking a sip of his beer. “Exaggerated nonsense.”

Scoffing, Mike gave John’s good shoulder a playful push. “And from what I’ve heard from other army colleagues, you haven’t changed in that respect. Didn’t they call you ‘Three Continents Watson’?”

“Well, I’m trying to date just one woman now, and that’s hard enough. When we finally manage to find a time we can both go out, she always seems to get some emergency text calling her away. I’m beginning to think she’s not really that keen on me.” John shrugged.

Sherlock shuffled the cards, strangely quiet on the topic. 

Greg returned to the table, and grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair. “Well, blokes, I best be off. Don’t think I have a chance to win back my money from Mike here anyways.” 

John got up and walked Greg towards the door. “Thanks for coming out. I’ve missed our pub nights. We’ll have to do one again soon.” 

The policeman gave him a warm smile, and waved goodbye to the other men before he headed out.

Mike chuckled as John sat down at the table again. “So nothing really happening there yet?” 

Cringing a little, John sent a quick glance towards Sherlock. Well, that was that cat out of the bag. But Sherlock had clearly said he wasn’t interested in John, so it really didn’t matter if he knew John’s orientation. 

“Well, we are friends, but that’s it so far.” John shrugged. “If there really is a thing called gaydar, I’m missing it. I still don’t know if he’d be interested in more.”

Mike turned to Sherlock. “What do you think? Do you think Greg would go for this plonker?”

Sherlock seemed surprised by the question. “Well, he hasn’t been divorced that long. I can’t say if he’d be ready for a relationship with anyone for a while.”

“Who said anything about a relationship?” Mike nudged John’s shoulder, giving him a cheeky grin.

John smirked back, but didn’t add any fuel to that fire. He didn’t really feel comfortable joking about sex around Sherlock. Maybe when more time passed, and he didn’t feel as aware of him. As attracted to him. 

\---

-Disclosure: I own nothing.

A/N: Thanks again for the reads, kudos & comments. I'm new to this fandom, and it feels good to have so much support. :D


	5. The Blog

**Want to come over tonight for dinner? – SH**

John was surprised by the text from Sherlock. Usually John was the one texting Sherlock, fearing that he was being a pest. 

**Sure. Are we just going to get take-away? I could pick it up on the way over, if you like. - JW**

While he waited for a response, John pulled out his tally sheet. He’d been better this week, checking off the boxes for his nutrition and exercise plans. 

The dating boxes were unchecked since the last attempted date with Sarah. Lately, they’d been sharing slightly uncomfortable looks. John was pretty sure any chance he had with her was blown. They’d probably be fine eventually as friends and co-workers. John was good at befriending his ex’s. 

**No, I’ll be cooking. – SH**

**Really??? – JW**

He was really surprised at this. He had only seen Sherlock made toast on his own, and reheat leftovers. He had been good at simple tasks like chopping vegetables when he’d helped John before, but clearly didn’t have much experience. 

**Shepherd’s Pie. From scratch. Are you coming or not? – SH**

_Woah._ Sherlock making real food. Who woulda thunk? John just shrugged, and replied.

**Wouldn’t miss it for the world. About 6 pm, OK? - JW**

John looked down at his clothes, and wished he had time to go home and change. But then he sighed. This wasn’t a date. This was only two friends hanging out together. What he was wearing was fine. 

**Fine. Be punctual. – SH**

Funny how only Sherlock could come across as imperious with just a few text messages. John shook his head, and tucked his phone into his pocket. 

He was looking forward to seeing Sherlock. But he’d seen too many scary things in that kitchen the first night to fully trust Sherlock’s new found culinary skills. On the way out, he stopped at the news shop on the ground floor and bought a couple of granola bars, tucking them into his jacket pocket. If the meal was inedible, he could maybe sneak off to the washroom and at least eat them. Keep his stomach from grumbling loudly.

\----

Sherlock opened the door, looking a little more rumpled than he usually did. There was a smudge of something on his cheek, his hair was sticking up a little on one side, and his complexion was a bit flushed, likely from the heat in the kitchen. He was wearing a turquoise apron over his clothes, with a sentence spelled out in a curvy font, _'I'm just a Cupcake looking for my Stud Muffin.'_

John stifled a chuckle as he stepped into the apartment, hanging his coat up.

Sherlock looked down at the apron with a slight grimace. "Mrs. Hudson lent this to me. A hilarious gift from her sister, apparently." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it looking more normal.

Pity. John liked seeing Sherlock a bit messed up. "It smells good, Sherlock." He was pleasantly surprised at that, actually.

Sherlock went over to the oven, peering inside. "It will be ready in about five minutes. Wine?"

Nodding, John perched on the arm of the sofa, looking into the kitchen where Sherlock moved around, looking unexpectedly comfortable. But then John realized it had almost been two weeks since he got the concussion, and Sherlock had been preparing his own meals since then. It made sense that he had gained some proficiency. Sherlock passed him a glass of white wine.

When they sat down, John was impressed with the meal from the first bite. It was a shepherd's pie and a salad, not fancy, but tasty. "Where did you learn to cook like this? This is seriously good, Sherlock."

Looking pleased at the praise, Sherlock met John's gaze over his glass of ice water. "Cooking is just chemistry, when you get right down to it. The meat browns due to the Maillard reaction, between the amino acids and carbohydrates, when brought between 140 to 165 degrees Celsius. The mashed potato turns golden brown on top due to a caramelization reaction, pyrolysis of the carbohydrates at higher temperatures."

John chuckled at his friend as he took a bite of the salad. "And the salad? There was no cooking there."

"Salad dressings generally follow a formula of 60% oil, 30% acidic liquid like vinegar or lemon juice, and 10% flavouring agents like herbs. It is just preference for which ingredients you pick." Sherlock shrugged, taking a bite and chewing thoroughly.

John smiled to himself as he savoured the meal. Sherlock acted like it was no big thing, but he had made an effort with the dinner. The kitchen was free from body parts and the microscope still resided on the window sill, in the same position as before.

It seemed like Sherlock had really adapted to this temporary situation, perhaps experimenting with cooking instead of forensics. Looking over Sherlock, John thought he looked pretty good. He was wearing an aubergine shirt with the top couple buttons undone, and well-tailored black pants. “How are you feeling, Sherlock? I hope cooking this meal for me didn’t tire you out.” 

Shaking his head, Sherlock seemed more relaxed than before. “Cooking helps fill the time. I think the headache is slightly better.” 

“Well, it’s been about 10 days now, right? It’s normal for it to take a few weeks.” John was happy there was some progress.

Settling down on the sofa with a cup of tea when dinner was done, John looked around the living room. "Did you tidy up in here, Sherlock? There are no books on the floor."

Sherlock entered, carrying his own tea and a plate of biscuits, sitting beside John. He sighed, looking around. "I have a lot of hours to fill, John."

John's gaze went from the bookcase to the desk, and continued around the room in wonder. Everything looked organized, tidy...dusted. Underneath all that clutter, there was actually a nice, inviting flat.

"It's not that big a change, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Actually, having this time freed up from my work gave me time to sort things out around here. For a long time, I've thought of getting a roommate, and now the other bedroom is set up."

John's eyebrows rose slightly. It was hard imagining who would get along with Sherlock well enough to live with him. Most people couldn't handle his snarky comments, let alone the body parts that normally filled the kitchen. John let out a chuckle.

Light green eyes caught his, and Sherlock smiled ruefully. "I know what you're thinking. Who’d want me for a flatmate?"

John gave a little shrug as he sipped his tea. Sherlock could be moody and rude at times, but John had been around him enough now to tell him to shut up if he was being annoying or just ignore it. The flat normally wasn't this tidy, but John had certainly had worse flat mates in the past in that respect.

"Um, well, I actually might..." John found himself saying, and then the reality of it came crashing down. If he lived here, he'd be around Sherlock a lot more. Seeing him coming out of the bathroom after he had a shower, only a towel around his waist. Wearing only underwear under his silk robe. Spending more time together on a casual, day to day basis. Was that really a good idea, with how attracted John already was to him? Being around him more would just make that worse not better.

But before he could retract his comment, Sherlock jumped up. "Splendid! I'll let Mrs. Hudson know. She'll want to meet you." He went to the top landing of the stairs and called down. Quite quickly, the slim older lady bustled into the flat and Sherlock made introductions.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? Sherlock has been working so hard on this place." She looked up at the tall detective with a bit of maternal pride, before glancing back at John. "There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms."

John furrowed his eyebrows. "Of course we’ll be needing two." Had Sherlock given his landlady a different impression? It just didn't add up with Sherlock's comment a week or so ago about being 'married to his work'.

"Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here." The older lady gave a dismissive wave, leaning closer to speak in a quieter voice. "Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones."

She went on to bug Sherlock for not making a proper dessert for their dinner, spotting the store bought biscuits on the coffee table. Sherlock took her nagging with a fond tolerance, and John could tell he liked her affectionate fussing. She left soon after.

"So, when can you move in?" Sherlock asked, seeming quietly pleased with this outcome of their evening.

Sighing, John knew he couldn't back out now. "Um, tomorrow, if that suits you."

\---

It didn't take John long to settle in. Being in the army, he hadn't accumulated that much stuff, and he quickly unpacked it into the simple upstairs bedroom.

The evenings were relaxing, oddly comforting, but with moments that set John on edge. Usually they both worked on whatever took their interest, John emailing old friends still in Afghanistan and working on his blog. Sherlock had his points activities, playing violin, drawing, and lately even seemed to be trying nature studies. There were several pencil sketches of leaves and insects on the coffee table.

But Sherlock still had periods of being bored, and wasn't afraid of letting John know it. Right now, he was bouncing a small rubber ball against the wall, and the thumping noise was getting on John's nerves.

"Sherlock! Do you have to do that?" John looked up from the blog he was struggling to write to glare at his flatmate. 

Catching the ball, Sherlock glared back, jumping up from his chair to pace around the room. "But I'm so bored, John. So sick of this."

Sighing, John looked at the agitated man. He had done so well with the program, but anyone would get frustrated with the limitations. 

John closed his laptop and sat down on the sofa. "You know, I'd love to hear more about the cases you worked on with Lestrade in the past." When in doubt, get Sherlock talking about himself. He was vain enough to usually fall for it, and John was generally interested in learning more about him.

Sherlock stopped pacing, looking surprised. "You would?"

"Well, yes. I like hearing how you deduce things from tiny details everyone else missed." John crossed his legs, settling in to listen.

Dropping onto the armchair, Sherlock tapped his long fingers against his thigh. "OK, I'll tell you about the first case I contacted him about."

Sherlock went into a detailed account of a bank robbery that resulted in a murder of an employee, and how Sherlock was able to deduce the victim had been in on the heist. 

John listened attentively, nodding and occasionally making comments like 'incredible' or 'brilliant'.

Sherlock seemed quietly pleased with the praise. "Do you really think so?"

"Of course. It was quite extraordinary." John was impressed, truly.

The taller man's mouth lifted a bit on one side. "That’s not what people normally say."

John chuckled. "What do people normally say?"

"‘Piss off’!" Sherlock replied, his eyes warm as they met John's as they laughed.

It was always a bit of a shock when Sherlock made a joke, he made them so rarely. But they never failed to get a true laugh out of John, even while his heart skipped a beat taking in Sherlock looking at him like that. Smiling, laughing, comfortable and at ease with John. And those eyes, looking happy and so unique, so beautiful. John had to force himself to look away 

“Um, can you tell me about another case? Unless you are feeling tired?” John scrambled for another topic to keep Sherlock close and talking.

Shaking his head slowly, Sherlock stretched out his long legs, crossing his ankles. He seemed relaxed and not bored at all. John liked seeing him like this. “We had a case involving several missing persons who would eventually show up with a chunk of their memories gone.”

John nodded encouragingly, settling back into the sofa as he listened. Watching Sherlock as he told the story, his face expressive, punctuated by some hand gestures occasionally. 

But John got distracted, and fell under the spell of Sherlock’s voice again. The meaning of the words faded and he just wanted to close his eyes and feel… feel as those rich tones swept over him. Sexy sounds from this very sexy man. And John could feel his body start to respond.

Jumping slightly, John jarred himself out of that line of thinking. Sherlock paused, not knowing what had happened. 

Flushing a tiny bit, John sat up straighter. “Um… Sherlock… I am finding your stories so amazing…” He searched for what to say next, something to explain his behavior. “It just struck me that they might be interesting to write up for my blog. Would that be OK with you?” 

Getting up, John rushed over to the desk and opened his laptop, and had a blank word doc open. He wasn’t so aroused yet that his state was easy to detect, but he twisted his body away from Sherlock just to be sure. 

"You are going to write about my cases? About me?" Sherlock asked, sitting up straight in his chair. He seemed intrigued by the idea.

John shrugged, opening up his blog. "Well, it will be a hell of a lot more interesting than me yakking on and on about my PTSD."

Sherlock gave a nod, and John made rough notes as he began talking, occasionally stopping Sherlock to ask a clarifying question. After about an hour, he had a draft. 

"Thanks, Sherlock. I think I have enough to write it up now." John nodded, feeling excited about this. It was an interesting case and he did like writing. He created a new blog for it, separate from his personal one, and by the end of the night was able to post the finished write-up.

\---

"There are a few hundred hits on the blog, Sherlock!" John took a bite of his toast as he reviewed the site. This was amazing. 

Sherlock strolled in, wearing only pajama bottoms and his flowing silk robe. He fell in a graceful heap on the armchair, and John had to tense up to keep from walking over there and kissing him senseless. He looked so natural and at ease, so effortlessly beautiful. 

He made a pleased sound. "Never thought there would interest like that in them." His long fingers tapped against the side of his mug.

John smiled. "Would you up for doing more? I like hearing your stories and writing them up, if you don't mind telling them to me." 

A part of John was screaming 'WTF ARE YOU DOING??!?', but this was too good an opportunity. Too good a chance to spend time with Sherlock, to have this thing they could share and work on together. His stupid heart just wanted any way to be around him. But John's head was warning him this was a bad idea. This was going to bring them closer, feed into the strong attraction John already had for Sherlock. He was setting himself up for getting hurt.

Sherlock seemed to only view John as a friend, easy in each other's company. He acted totally unselfconscious around him, not seeming to realize how often John's gaze lingered a little too long. Or how often John wanted to touch him in passing and resisted, like resting a hand in his shoulder as he passed him a mug of tea. 

"I'd love it." Sherlock smiled as he said it, and John had to keep from moaning aloud. His voice, that voice, still zinged through John sometimes, sending tingles of arousal chasing along his skin. 

John closed his laptop. "Um, well, great, then." He nodded awkwardly. "Maybe later today then." And left the room fast.

In the bathroom, John stripped and got into the hot shower. This was getting worse and worse. Since moving in, so many little things Sherlock did affected John this way. He hadn't jerked off this often in years. And all the while, he replayed Sherlock saying he'd love it, imagining all sorts of adult situations.

John pictured getting up, and instead of escaping to the shower, going to Sherlock and kneeling in front of his chair. Sliding a hand down the bare chest until it reached the belt of his robe, undoing it. Spreading the fabric wide to see all that pale, perfect skin. Untying the drawstring on his pajama bottom, and sliding his hand inside, feeling him thick and hard, hearing Sherlock moan with that gorgeous voice as he threw his head back. Shifting in the chair to be closer to John, to give better access for the explorations of John's hands...and mouth.

Those thoughts brought John over the edge, bracing himself against the slick shower wall, trying to be quiet as he shuddered in pleasure.

\---

-Disclosure: I own nothing.

-A/N: Thanks again for reading. :)

-The information about cooking chemistry is true. Maillard and caramelization reactions result in the change of colour and yummy flavour of the food. The salad dressing 'formula' is real too and works in all sorts of variations.


	6. The Fight

"Is your shoulder bothering you, John?" Sherlock's voice came from surprisingly close, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck in awareness, and John jumped slightly, almost dropping the dish he was washing. Sherlock cooked dinner most nights, so John had taken over washing up duties.

Turning his head, John glanced back at his flatmate. "A little, I guess. Just feeling a little stressed lately." He shrugged, and could feel his bad shoulder was a little tighter than usual. Sherlock was very observant to have noticed. 

Sighing, John knew he should do a longer stretching and exercise session with it later. In the week since he'd moved in, he hadn't been sleeping well, and it made his shoulder act up. His obsession with Sherlock was getting worse, affecting his sleep, distracting him during the day. It was like a coil inside him, tightening more and more. He had started avoiding Sherlock in the apartment even, taking his laptop into his bedroom instead of working in the living room. Surely, these feelings would fade soon. They must.

"Maybe I can help you." Sherlock said, and then large hands settled on John's shoulders, moving in a deep kneading motion. 

John froze at the touch, feeling the sparks of sensation, the warmth, emanating from those large, strong hands. He tried to relax and breathe normally, but the whole time he was thinking _'Sherlock's touching me, touching me, touching me...'_ like a schoolgirl with a hopeless crush. 

Bracing his hands against the counter, John gave up any pretence of washing dishes, closed his eyes, and just savoured the touch. 

Sherlock's motions were not that experienced, but he seemed to sense where John's muscles were tight and massaged firmly with his strong violinist fingers. He was thorough and unrushed, moving over John's whole upper back, the thin material of John's tee not hindering him at all. His hands even went down John's arms, working into his biceps and triceps. 

It felt wonderful, fantastic. John felt the muscles loosening, and relaxed under Sherlock's touch. But he was also very aware of the man standing so close behind him, his hands moving over his body, and a soft moan escaped when he exhaled. 

John pulled away, embarrassed. "Oh, sorry...I'm...ah...Thanks, Sherlock. My shoulder feels a lot better. Thanks." He nodded twice, trying to gather himself before the all-too-observant tall man.

Sherlock gave a small smile, and backed away, leaving John alone to finish the dishes. 

\---

John pushed his shopping cart around the busy Tesco's, trying to remember what else he needed. He happened to be near the pharmacy section, and his eyes landed on a shelf. 

Picking up a bottle of lube, John looked at it for a minute. He certainly needed it, having run out a couple nights before and hand lotion just wasn't the same. But Sherlock was with him, picking up some vegetables for some new recipe he was going to try. How could he buy this without eagle-eyes Sherlock noticing? John really didn't want to make another trip to the store for it. 

Tucking it under another item in the cart, John figured he'd find a way to buy it, or drop it somewhere else in the store if he couldn't. 

Grabbing the last items he needed, John headed to the produce section to see if Sherlock was ready for the checkout. 

"It's not the only vegetable the Americans have a strange name for. I've had people come in asking for rutabagas and arugula." The tall, blond man in a store uniform said, leaning towards Sherlock.

Sherlock was holding some green vegetables in his hands, and appeared far too interested in what the store clerk was talking about. He chuckled, looking attractive in his long, dark coat and mussed up hair. "What the hell are those?"

The clerk's dark eyes were definitely flirty as he laughed at Sherlock's question. "Exactly! That's what they call swedes and rocket."

"I've heard they call _mange tout_ snow peas. Makes me curious about the etymology of the terms." Sherlock said, seemingly perfectly content to chat all day with the attractive man.

John pushed the cart close until it nudged against Sherlock's hip. "Are you ready to go?" His tone was low, practically growling, as he glared at the store clerk. The worker got the message, jumping up and sending an apologetic glance John's way before rushing off. 

He didn't get such a satisfying response from Sherlock though. "Why'd you scare him off like that? I was having an interesting conversation with him." He put the vegetables into the cart, pouting slightly.

"Are you done here?" John snapped. _Or do you want to go flirt with that young blond man some more?_ Sherlock had said he was 'married to his work', but maybe that was just some excuse to let John down easy. Maybe John wasn't his type. He preferred younger, more attractive men.

Sherlock's eyes snapped to John's, finally noticing John's bad mood. "What's wrong, John?"

John huffed. "Nothing, all right? Can we just get the fuck out of here?" Without waiting for an answer, he swung the cart around, heading for the checkout.

They waited in line, John silently stewing and half-tempted to say 'Fuck it!', leave the sodding groceries and storm out. He just needed to be away from Sherlock right now, far, far away. Get some time on his own to settle down. The little glances Sherlock was sending his way, a mixture of being curious but also anxious in his eyes, didn't help settle John's anger.

Finally back at the flat, John practically threw the groceries into the refrigerator and cabinets, slamming cupboard doors shut loudly as he went. Sherlock stood out of the way, slowly unpacking a bag at the table as he watched the storm of emotions, his motions careful to not direct the anger his way.

"Look, John. Obviously you are mad about something. Can you tell me what it is?" Sherlock asked, turning to face John.

John scoffed. "What? Can't the worlds only consulting detective bloody figure it out?" He walked over to pick up the items Sherlock unpacked, noticing the lube bottle amongst them, and bit back a groan. _Perfect. Fucking Perfect._

He swept up the items and shoved them all in the refrigerator, slamming the door behind him. There, everything was put away. He stomped out into the living room.

Sherlock had followed him. "John, please. I'm not always that good at picking up social cues. Did I do something wrong? If so, I'm sorry."

John looked at Sherlock, seeing his troubled expression, and felt his anger ease a bit. It wasn't his fault he wasn't attracted to John, didn't return his feelings. He hadn't done anything wrong. Right from the start, he'd been clear that he wasn't interested in John that way. It was John who had let his feelings get to this point.

"It's not you, Sherlock. You didn't do anything wrong. It's me, OK?" John ran his hands through his hair, just frustrated. This whole week had been hard, battling his attraction to Sherlock, and of course things finally blew up. And it would keep happening if he stayed in this situation. 

John knew what he had to do, and sighed, his shoulders dropping. "I think I better move out, Sherlock. This really isn't working out for me." 

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "No, no...you've only been here a week, John. Please don't go. I like having you here....so much. I thought we were friends." He looked genuinely upset and distressed, and John felt bad for hurting his feelings this way.

 _Friends._ Well, at least Sherlock had come to think of him as that. It might be all he ever got from Sherlock, but he'd take it. 

Blinking a bit at the moisture gathering in his eyes, John took a deep breath, and tried to speak with a normal voice. "We are friends, Sherlock. And I'm very happy we are."

Sherlock looked a little less upset on hearing that, but was still confused. "So you'll stay then? This is your home too, John. We can change things to make it better for you, if something is bothering you." He took a couple steps closer.

John shook his head. It was no use. His feelings were just getting stronger and going away was the only solution. Some time and distance, and maybe he could be around Sherlock as a friend. "I can't."

"This is ridiculous, John! You are here for a full week, and we get along great. Wonderful. And we go to a bloody Tesco's and you come home, deciding to just move out? Just like that?" Sherlock turned to pace around the room, angry and frustrated now. "This doesn't make sense. Something must have happened."

John shook his head, not wanting to be a part of this conversation. He looked around the room, starting to collect up his books and other items. It wouldn't take long to get all his stuff and get out.

"You were fine on the way there, and then we shopped on our own. And when you came to the produce department, you were in a bad mood. So, something must have either bothered you while you were shopping on your own, or when you came to get me..." Sherlock stopped his pacing, standing only a couple steps away. 

The image of Sherlock with the younger attractive man, talking and flirting so casually, flashed into John's mind, making him tense up again. He had to know. "You say you aren't interested in relationships, Sherlock. So what were you doing with that man?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "What man? Where?"

John rolled his eyes, wanting to just growl in frustration. He wanted to go back in the kitchen and slam things around some more. "That clerk! In the produce section!"

"Oh, the arugula man. We were just talking." Sherlock shrugged, dismissive.

"You weren't just talking, Sherlock. He was flirting with you, and you were flirting back." John ground out between clenched teeth. This man could be so infuriating sometimes.

Sherlock huffed, pulling himself straighter and looking down at John. "I was looking for a bloody zucchini, John, not a boyfriend." He delivered the statement in such icy, affronted tones, it was surprising John didn't just wither on the spot.

They glared at each other, both angry and wound up, when suddenly the ridiculousness of the situation seeped through, and they both cracked up, laughing so hard they landed on the sofa. 

The tension between them ebbed away, and eventually Sherlock looked at John, his eyes soft and gently probing. "Why did that bug you so much, John?"

John looked at Sherlock, sitting so close, his eyes such a lovely aqua green, and he leaned closer until his lips covered Sherlock's. The kiss was firm and long, and John put all his pent up emotions into it.

Pulling back, John sighed as he opened his eyes. "That's why, Sherlock." 

Sherlock's eyes were still closed, and he was still, barely breathing. Things would never be the same between them now. Always uncomfortable, awkward. One-sided feelings didn't work well in any type of relationship. At least he had that one good kiss, something he could remember Sherlock by.

"Do that again." Sherlock said softly, opening his eyes and looking a little dazed.

John jolted in surprise, but not even a heartbeat later he was kissing Sherlock again, not holding back. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him closer, losing himself in the sensation of having this wonderful man so close. 

After the first few kisses, Sherlock was kissing back, more and more intently as he moved closer. John could hardly breathe but he didn't care, he felt so happy he wouldn't mind dying like this. 

Somehow, they had ended up horizontal on the sofa, John on top of Sherlock, their legs tangled together. John was aware suddenly of how hard he was, and wondered if Sherlock had noticed, feeling a bit embarrassed. 

He dropped his face to Sherlock's neck, and sighed. "What are we doing here, Sherlock?" It was wonderful, but it was so much, so fast. 

Sherlock chuckled, and John could feel the vibration through his chest as well as hear the wonderful sound. "Snogging."

John propped himself up, looking down at Sherlock. His lips were a bit kiss-swollen and his eyes were affectionate, happy. He looked incredible. "But you said you don't...you didn't want..." Words failed him, so John just waved downwards, towards where their bodies were in such close contact.

Arching an eyebrow, Sherlock said with a bit of a smirk, "Well, apparently I changed my mind."

He looked adorable, and John couldn't resist swooping down to capture his lips again. Sherlock rolled them over, and John wrapped his legs around him as things heated up, their breaths coming out faster.

"Wait, wait. You aren't supposed to..." John moaned as Sherlock kissed down his neck, making most thoughts fly from his head. He struggled to remember his point, and then sighed, pulling back. "Wait, Sherlock. It's on the list."

"Fuck the list." Sherlock said, his voice rough with arousal, exactly how John had dreamed it would sound. 

Groaning, John moved away and sat up on the sofa. This was so unfair. He had Sherlock willing and eager, and he had to stop. He pushed his hands into his hair, trying to get his breath back and calm down.

Eventually, Sherlock sighed and sat up on the sofa beside him, pulling his clothing back in order. John sighed at the pale stripe of bare stomach he had been touching disappearing beneath his blue shirt. "You are such a fucking Boy Scout at times, John." 

John nodded. "I'm a doctor that took an oath, Sherlock. Do no harm. You know you aren't supposed to over-exert yourself while you recover, and that includes sex. It could make your headaches worse."

Getting up, Sherlock nodded. "Yes, yes...." He sighed in frustration. "I'm going for a walk. Get some air." He took the messenger bag with his drawing materials and threw on his long coat.

John watched as he closed the door behind him, and listened as he ran down the stairs. It had been such a crazy day. Their fight, the making out... It was just a lot to process and it was probably good Sherlock had left to give them both some space.

John decided to do what any good Brit would do...headed to the kitchen to make a cuppa. As the water heated up, John looked around the kitchen, his thoughts a muddle.

On the sofa again with his comforting beverage, John reviewed everything. Sherlock had said they were friends and wanted him to stay. He had been kissing John very enthusiastically, and seemed to want more, so he was attracted to John. But was there more there? Did Sherlock have deeper feelings, like John did? John wasn't even sure what his own feelings were, things had happened so fast.

Hopefully the kissing hadn't been just a one-off thing. It would be awful if Sherlock returned and wanted to go back to being just friends. John wouldn't be able to stay if that happened. 

If Sherlock came back and wanted things to continue, they would have to take it slow. Slow, to make sure their feelings were true and would last. Slow, to allow for Sherlock to recover, sticking to just kissing and cuddling for now. Slow, because John felt really, really unsure about the future. 

The real big truth staring John right in the face was that their whole situation wasn't 'normal'. John had only met Sherlock the night he had gotten the concussion, and he'd been taking it easy from his regular routines. But when Sherlock recovered, he would go back to his old life. And how would John fit into it?

From what he could piece together, Sherlock got very, very involved in his cases. He hardly slept or ate while he worked on them. Threw himself into the path of danger, hunting criminals on the London streets. And when one case ended, he was anxious to find another one.

How would that work with John's work at the clinic? Would they get on, with such different schedules? Would they see each other much? Things were going well now, but would they then?

And who knew how long until Sherlock felt better? Usually only a few weeks for most concussions, but the brain was mysterious and it could take longer. 

So many unanswered questions swirling around John's head. It was the main reason John wanted to take things slow. They needed to get to know each other when things were more normal, and see if it still worked. 

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Yay! Kissing! Hope you liked this chapter. :)

-Veggies, American translated to British! Zucchini = Courgette, Arugula = Rocket, Rutabaga = Swedish Turnip, Snow Peas and Snap Peas = Mange Tout (French for 'eat all', since you eat the whole pod), Eggplant = Aubergine, and don't get me started about scallions, spring onions, and green onions. :P

-Concussion Recovery: I learned a lot about concussion recovery writing this fic. 'Concussion Recovery Starts With Both Physical and Cognitive Rest' article by Lindsay Barton Straus, JD, cites many recent studies done on the topic if you want to know more. For the purposes of this story, I have exaggerated the cognitive/physical rest Sherlock needs for his recovery a bit.

I added a Sherlock-related blog to my tumblr. It's delightful-fear-sherlock.tumblr.com. 


	7. The Bed

"John," the low-pitched tone called softly, very close by. Was this a dream, or reality? John was too sleepy to worry about it, and assumed it was a dream.

There was a low chuckle, and John stirred a little. Such a sexy sound. If this wasn't a dream, he definitely wanted to be awake for this.

Opening his eyes, it was a bit odd to see Sherlock's face so close to his own, and John startled a little.

"Just me, John. Come, time for bed." There was a small grin on that tempting mouth, as Sherlock backed away and his hands urged John up and off the sofa.

Blinking slowly, John looked around and realized it was dark in the apartment and quiet. Likely quite late. Sherlock was nudging him to move and John did so.

"Um...wait..." John snapped into wakefulness at the sound of the door clicking shut. Sherlock's door, with Sherlock beside him in the dim room. His heart beat faster at the way Sherlock was looking down at him.

The tall man took a step closer, and his hand cupped the back of John's head as his mouth descended. The kiss was confident and thorough, and John's thoughts flew out of his head as he kissed Sherlock back, just needing this so much.

But he surfaced again when he felt Sherlock tugging his shirt up, and the touch of his hand against his bare skin. John pulled back, looking up at Sherlock's shadowed face. "We can't...," he said softly, wishing he didn't feel duty-bound to speak up. Wishing he could just get carried away in the moment.

Sherlock kissed down John's neck, and seemed to chuckle at his involuntary moan in response. "Just want to kiss and touch you, John. Explore you..."

As the words sank in, Sherlock moved John even closer to the bed, tugging John's tee over his head. Feeling Sherlock touching his bare skin, plus the proximity of the bed seemed to have stolen John's reasoning powers.

With a sigh, he sat down on the bed. Sherlock's eyes seemed to spark with interest, and he pulled his shirt off quickly, throwing it to the side before crawling onto the bed.

Moving to the center of the bed in just his trousers, Sherlock looked fantastic. John shifted to be lying beside him, unsure if this was just going to be too much. He'd wanted it so, so long. It still felt unbelievable.

"I haven't done this for many years... Since uni." Sherlock said softly, lying still beside John, probably sensing his nervous tension battling with excitement.

John looked at him, trying to read his expression. "Done what?"

"Been in bed with someone. Kissing. More." He shrugged. "Haven't wanted to...until now."

It seemed strange that such an attractive, interesting man hadn't had sex in at least a decade.

"Well, we should take it slow anyways, with your condition. Keep the rest of our clothes on." John said, looking down at Sherlock's chest. Still, he held back, wanting Sherlock to go at the speed he felt comfortable with.

Sherlock crawled over John, looking down at him with a small smile, before dipping his head down to capture John's lips. Their bare chests touched, and he groaned at the intimacy of naked skin against his again. It had been far too long since he'd had sex last.

The detective seemed eager but not experienced, which made sense considering his past. John loved kissing, taking the time to explore different sensations, and soon Sherlock was copying him. John was quickly panting with need.

Pulling back, Sherlock surveyed John, seeing his darkened eyes, swollen lips, and his fast breathing. "You want this. You want me." His voice was raspy with arousal, the sound going right to John's cock.

"Fuck... so, so much, Sherlock." John couldn't deny it. Didn't want to.

Nodding, the tall man ran his fingers lightly over John's bare chest, watching his response to the touch. He circled a nipple with a fingertip, his eyes interested as it tightened. The other got similar treatment, and then Sherlock tugged lightly on both.

John closed his eyes, gasping. He didn't mind being Sherlock's plaything, spread out for him to enjoy. It was a heady sensation, being the focus of that intense attention.

Sherlock's fingers traced over the shoulder scar, lightly at first, and with John's nod, pressing firmer. John could see Sherlock working out that the scarring resulted from the secondary infection, understood the seriousness of the injury from the marks telling their story on John's skin. He explored with simple curiosity, showing no signs of disgust or any negative emotions that people sometimes showed the first time John took off his shirt. It made John feel accepted, and he relaxed, closing his eyes to Sherlock's explorations.

But his eyes shot open when he felt Sherlock lick across the raised surface. Looking down, Sherlock's eyes were closed and he seemed lost in tracing over the area with his mouth. Lips, tongue and even his teeth, somehow erotic and so intimate. Never had he been explored so thoroughly.

John clenched his hands, trying to resist digging them into Sherlock's hair, and dragging him up for some hard kisses. But he wanted to leave Sherlock to explore and touch at his own pace, wanted to see what he would do. Make sure he felt comfortable, and didn't stop.

That wicked mouth travelled to other areas, seeming to take particular delight when John jumped slightly at a nip on his neck, or a contented hum near his ear. This was delicious torture, and he never wanted it to end.

Sherlock was gaining confidence in his caresses, seeing how responsive John was to them. His nails lightly raked down John's back, leaving red marks that quickly faded to a light pink. Sucking hard on the skin at the base of John's neck, his teeth teasing over the skin.

"Fuck...." John moaned. "Mark me, Sherlock. Bite me hard." The idea of alone was enough to make his breath catch.

Lifting his head, Sherlock looked down at John, seeming surprised at the request. "You want me to... Why? Won't that just hurt?"

John couldn't resist grabbing the back of Sherlock's neck to drag him down for a hot kiss. "Yes, but you have me so aroused, it will feel good." He stole another kiss. "And when I look in the mirror later, I'll see your mark and it will make me remember this."

By Sherlock's raised eyebrows, John could tell he wasn't really convinced, so John tilted his head to the side to give him better access.

That wonderful mouth returned to tease John, kissing, sucking and licking. He was braced slightly for a bite, waiting, anticipating it. Just when he thought Sherlock wasn't going to do it, he felt the harder bite. And it hurt so fucking good.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was a rough growl now, that voice that had started all this…it was just too much. 

Rolling onto his side, John closed his eyes tight and tried to slow his breathing. Slow his heartbeat. Calm the fuck down. 

A tentative hand touched his shoulder, and then rested on him more firmly. Feeling the bed move and a tall body shifting behind him. “John, what is it?” Soft. Curious.

John swallowed, and opened his eyes, looking at the bare wall for a moment. “Um…I just needed a minute. It was a bit much there.”

He felt the hand on his shoulder give a little tug, and John rolled onto his back, looking up at Sherlock who was lying on his side. Light green eyes searched for confirmation, understanding. “But you asked me to…”

Lifting a hand, John smoothed it along Sherlock’s upper arm. “No, no… I liked it. Maybe a little too much.” 

“Then why did you stop? Pull away?” Sherlock let a hand go to the red mark he had left on John’s neck, tracing over it lightly. 

John looked down, and then met Sherlock’s gaze again. "I needed a minute to cool down a bit."

Sherlock nodded. “I want to touch you more.” His hand slid down John’s chest, lightly, but heading in a definite direction.

Groaning, John reluctantly grabbed Sherlock's hand. "If you do, I won't be able to hold back. And it's not fair, if you can't get your ... release too." Fuck. Just thinking of being naked together, stroking each other, watching as Sherlock found his peak made John very aware of how tight his jeans felt.

"I'll be OK, John. I just really want to see you, feel you." Sherlock said, again moving his hand downwards.

His heartbeat was fast again, but John didn’t stop Sherlock. Not when his fingers touched the waistband of his jeans, pausing. His eyes met Sherlock’s, giving a tiny nod, and the fingertips went lower. Tracing, teasing. And John couldn’t help but close his eyes as he groaned at the sensation.

Sherlock fingers fumbled a bit in undoing John's zipper, showing his limited experience again, and it made John feel even more excited. Being one of the few who had ever seen the aloof Sherlock this way.

The zipper was finally undone, and John clothes were pushed down and off in the next heated minutes. Sherlock was just as thorough in his explorations of the rest of John's body. He'd never had a lover stroke the thin skin on the back of his knee, then rub a slightly scratchy cheek over it. Never thought he would practically orgasm from short fingernails dragging up his inner thighs.

It was clear Sherlock was entirely experimental in his caresses, cataloguing John's responses to a variety of stimuli, and then testing if he got the same reaction in a different patch of skin. He was unhurried, not trying to build up to John's orgasm. 

John had been hard for ages, remaining erect even without direct contact. Just having Sherlock near, touching him so attentively, seemed enough to keep John near the edge. But after a long, long time, he just couldn't take it anymore.

"Sherlock, please..." John groaned as he kissed near his hip, trying to resist arching up against those lips. 

Bright green eyes flicked up John's body, looking for answers. "What do you want, John?" His voice was a silky purr, and John could feel his warm breath against the wet patch on his skin. 

"Please, touch me...or I can touch myself." John was too desperate now to be shy. He just needed to come.

There was a soft chuckle, and Sherlock rolled off the bed. "Be right back." 

John groaned as Sherlock walked quickly out of the bedroom, bare chested. _Where the fuck was he going?_ It wasn't the washroom.

It seemed ages later when Sherlock finally returned, holding a bundle of fabric he set on the bedside table. He crawled back on the bed, leaning in to kiss John thoroughly. 

"Sorry that took so long, but somebody put the lube in the fridge and I had to run the bottle under hot water for awhile." Sherlock chuckled as he fished the lube out of the tea towel, and put a large dollop onto his palm. 

John moaned as that slick hand wrapped around him. "Oh, fuck...yes...so good." After so long, it wasn't going to take much. 

Sherlock seemed to sense this, and his rhythm was steady, his grip firm. John was soon arching off the bed, fucking into Sherlock's fist, muscles tense, straining. 

His orgasm was long and intense, and he was probably too loud, but John was too far gone to care. As he regained his senses, he opened his eyes to see Sherlock so close, his eyes intent and heated, taking in everything. 

"Thank you, Sherlock. That was simply...incredible." Words couldn't do it justice. John exhaled, still feeling like he'd run a mile. Grabbing the tissues from the nightstand, he cleaned up, and passed some to Sherlock.

Sherlock had a small, pleased grin, and leaned down to kiss John lightly. "You were so open and uninhibited. So trusting."

The comment made John wonder about Sherlock's past partners. Had those experiences not been that good? Turned Sherlock off from sex? Was that why he hadn't done it in so long? Was it just rushed, drunk sex with randoms? 

University-aged students usually weren't that experienced that they took their time. John just shook his head, thinking of his early twenties. Frantic, enthusiastic sex lacking the finesse that came with age and more experience.

Cuddling against Sherlock's side, John placed a small kiss against his chest. Sherlock shuddered slightly in response, and John was very aware of the tension in his body. Looking down, he could see the obvious bulge of his erection, pressing against the zip of his trousers.

John wanted to slide his hand over it, feel him hard and thick, gasping as John undid the zipper slowly. Wanted to take his time to explore Sherlock. Wanted to touch and taste everywhere.

"No, John." Sherlock said with a sigh, as John started to move a hand downwards. "I'll be OK in a few minutes." 

Looking up, John met Sherlock's eyes. The heat was still there, but it was cooling. It didn't seem fair, not right, to have pleasure and release when his partner couldn't. John had always prided himself on putting his lover's pleasure first. 

Seeming to sense his internal struggle, Sherlock gathered John close, letting out a contented sigh. "I like this, John. Being close to you like this. I have a doctor's appointment next week, so I'll see if she clears me for more." 

"Maybe we should stick to just kissing and cuddling, clothes on, until then. This isn't fair to you." John knew it would be hard, literally, to be around Sherlock, but he could use masturbation to keep his sanity.

Sherlock shook his head. "I can handle it. I researched Tantric sex practices for a case a few years ago, and they often forego orgasm for long periods of time." He dipped down to kiss John. "But don't deny me the pleasure of learning you, John."

That voice. That damn, deep, slightly rough voice. John would find it hard to say no to anything that voice asked. He nodded, not trusting his own voice. Half afraid he'd open his mouth and just let out a needy whimper. Because, already, he was feeling aroused again. 

Bright eyes missed nothing, and focused onto John, likely noticing the subtle signs of his desire. "Roll onto your stomach, John." The voice had even more of a rough edge to it, and it skittered up John's spine. 

He obeyed eagerly, and sunk again into a world of slow touches and sensual teasing. 

\---

The next few days were a sensual blur. John had been in hot relationships in the past, where the first few weeks were hours of sex and discovery. But this was even more intense.

Sherlock seemed to focus strongly on one thing at a time. When he was on a case, he hardly slept or ate. And now, his focus was on John. It was electrifying. Exciting. Almost overwhelming.

When at the flat, they rarely stepped far from the bed, unless it was the shower or the sofa. John had never been explored so thoroughly by any lover before. Sherlock probably knew his body better than John did. 

And his body knew Sherlock's touch. Responded embarrassingly fast, like there was a short circuit from even the most casual touch. His response was even faster to Sherlock's voice, and he knew not to answer phone calls at work unless he had time to spend in the staff washroom for a wank afterwards. He was too old to be like this, wasn't he? 

After a few days, John could see a change in Sherlock too. He knew his power over John, and grew confident in it. It was so fucking sexy, seeing Sherlock growing comfortable with his sexuality and attractiveness this way. In his ability as a lover. To see the delight in his eyes when he whispered something innocuous like 'do you want chicken for dinner?' into John's ear when they were cuddling, and knowing it was simply his voice that made John turn his head and seek his lips in a heated kiss. 

John's main obsession was the growing need to return all the attentions Sherlock gave him. He wanted to see Sherlock come apart under his touch. Wanted to see Sherlock grow just as comfortable in receiving pleasure as he was in giving it. 

John sensed Sherlock was holding back, a bit scared of letting go. Of putting himself entirely into the hands of a lover and being on the receiving end. Not being in complete control. And that was why it would be so exciting to get Sherlock to that place.

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: Getting lucky in chapter 7! Hope you liked the sexy times... It's my first time writing a sex scene for Johnlock. 


	8. The Chemistry

His mobile buzzed against his desk, and John looked at it, his breath catching. He shouldn’t look... 

**Come at once if convenient – SH**

John felt a tingle start at his toes, and went up through his whole body.

A minute later, still holding the phone, it buzzed again.

**If inconvenient, come anyway – SH**

There was a clattering sound, and John looked around, in a daze, and realized he had dropped his phone. 

\---

John walked up the stairs, not sure what he would find in the flat. Knowing they were heading for new territory.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. Sherlock was there, right there, and before John could say a word, he had him against the wall.

The kisses were deep and intense, searching, seeking. The hunger in them scorched through John, flaring his constant low level of arousal around Sherlock into burning need. He felt surrounded, consumed, and he loved it.

Somehow, they were now in Sherlock's bedroom and John’s jumper was already off, Sherlock's hands busy with the fastenings of his trousers.

John dragged his hands away reluctantly. "Sherlock, wait..."

"No more waiting," Sherlock growled, diving down to kiss and bite at John's neck in a way that he'd perfected in the last week. A way that crumbled John into a writhing pile of need.

But he had to know for sure, had to... John somehow pulled back, and when Sherlock moved to attack his sensitive neck again, gave him a firm push.

The push was unexpected, and Sherlock lost his balance, falling backwards. Luckily, he fell right onto the bed, blinking in surprise at his sudden change in position.

John saw him splayed out on the bed, and took advantage of the situation. He scrambled over Sherlock, straddling his hips and pinning his wrists to the bed. "Tell me, Sherlock." He looked delicious from this vantage point, but John held back from lowering his head to capture those lips.

Sherlock's eyes flashed, full of heat and arrogance. "Tell you what, John." His voice was a sensual purr he knew by now was John's kryptonite.

Closing his eyes tightly, John took a couple calming breaths. This man was infuriating, but irresistible. "What did the fucking doctor say, Sherlock? I need to hear it."

Knowing he had John's full attention while he waited for the answer, Sherlock gave a slow, sexy smile. "She gave me the all clear."

The words had barely left his lips, when John groaned and kissed him, with everything he had been holding back. Before now, he had let Sherlock take the lead, had let him do what he was comfortable with, banked his own desires. But it was all released now, and John kissed Sherlock with unreserved abandon.

John loved kissing and he knew what he was doing. He went from deep, drugging kisses that left them both breathless to teasing brushes of his lips over Sherlock's, until he was lifting his head to chase John's for deeper ones again. With a sexy chuckle, John looked down at Sherlock, darkened eyes and kiss-swollen lips, and wanted to see him desperate with need.

Rocking his hips slightly, his erection rubbed against Sherlock's, and he felt the man shudder beneath him as he closed his eyes. He ground his hips in a slow circle, and felt rewarded when Sherlock arched up, pressing closer with a broken off groan.

Leaning down, John kissed along the pale column of his neck, light and teasing. Feeling Sherlock twist and move in response, pulling against John's hands.

Lifting his head, John pinned Sherlock with a steady look. "I'm going to release your wrists now, but I want you to keep your hands where they are." His voice was a bit scratchy, a bit rough.

The light green eyes widened slightly, and John could see the flash of defiance in them. John kept his eyes steady, meeting the challenge in Sherlock's easily. Seeing the heat flare in them when it registered that John wasn't going to back down from this. It took a few more heartbeats before he got a small nod of agreement.

Letting go of Sherlock's wrists, John sat up straighter, looking down at Sherlock. His hands were still in the same position, lying above his head against the sheets. His clothes were rumpled and he was breathing faster.

John felt a surge of arousal at seeing this man laid out beneath him. Waiting and eager. All his to enjoy.

First, John needed to see him. All of him. He started with the top button of Sherlock's dress shirt. 

As he worked on the second, Sherlock made an impatient noise, and rolled his eyes. John quelled it with a quick look. “It was your turn all week, Sherlock. It’s my turn now.” He would not be rushed in this.

Sherlock was a bundle of coiled energy beneath him, all the sexual tension that had built up. John’s light touches as he undid the buttons was nowhere near enough, and he could feel how unsettled Sherlock was. Making him lie in this position, waiting, anticipating, made it even worse. John loved it.

Finally, John was able to spread Sherlock's shirt open to see his chest. Take his time to touch and explore. His fingertips followed the path of his gaze, loving the feel of his hot, smooth skin. He was nearly hairless, just a small amount of chest hair over his pecs, and a happy trail leading down from his belly button. Pale, perfect and lightly muscled. 

But John's gaze kept going lower, to that sizeable bulge pressing against his fly. So, so long, he had fantasized about this, touching Sherlock, tasting him. Scooting downwards, John shifted to kneel between his legs, placing his hands on Sherlock's hips. Leaning forward, he pressed his cheek against that oh so tempting bulge.

Sherlock jumped at the contact, his hips lifting off the bed, a strangled moan escaping. John glanced up to see his hands raised like he was going to move them downwards, but under John's steady look, Sherlock dropped them back against the bed. 

Smiling a little to himself, John nuzzled his face against the fine material of Sherlock's trousers. It was thin enough to allow him to feel his heat, to trace the shape and when he buried his nose in close, to smell him.

"Fuck, John..." Sherlock groaned, shifting restlessly against the bed, his hips trying to lift off the bed for more contact, but John held him in place. 

Opening his mouth slightly, John traced the hard shape with his lips, and sometimes his teeth. Closing his mouth over the tip, letting his warm, moist breath go through the material.

Large hands firmly grabbed John's shoulders, rolling him off to the side, and Sherlock was quickly standing beside the bed. His chest was heaving, his eyes glittering with intense emotions. Staring down at John, his hands were quickly undoing the fastenings of his trousers, and the material was pushed down before John could stop him, leaving him bare.

John let out complaining whine. "Sherlock, no...I wanted..." He shifted, onto his knees, holding out a hand towards the taller man.

Sherlock huffed, straightening up and tossing his head. "I know what you want, John. You wanted to tease me, drive me crazy." His voice was rough with arousal, his eyes dark as they looked down at John.

"Don't you know this whole week had been that? Taking in your uninhibited responses to my touch? Feeling you shudder in pleasure in my arms so many times?" Sherlock said in an intimate whisper, his sharp eyes moving over John's body in the way only an attentive lover could. 

The heated looks went right through John, making him even harder. "Sherlock, come back..." John moved towards the edge of the bed, fearing that he'd selfishly pushed Sherlock too much, too far outside his comfort zone. Forgotten in his lust haze that Sherlock hadn't been touched this way for so long.

"Not until I come..." Sherlock said, his face tense, and his gaze dropped. 

John's eyes followed and he looked at Sherlock's erection. And then Sherlock wrapped his hand around it, moving along the length with a hiss of pleasure.

The sight of that along with Sherlock's words had John scrambling to sit on the edge of the bed, and putting his hands back onto Sherlock's hips to tug him closer. He kissed the hot skin of Sherlock's lower belly, and then pushed away that stroking hand, opening his mouth to sink down onto him. Taking him deep right away.

Sherlock shuddered and groaned harshly, his hands clamping onto John's shoulder and the back of his head. John realized how close to the edge Sherlock was, so he sucked and licked hard, bobbing his head, followed the urging motions of those hands.

It was a whirl of just pure, intense sex. Both just caught up in the moment, pushing and straining together. Sherlock was rough, desperate, and John took it, loved it. Loved that this aloof man had been brought to this, this purely wanting sexual thing. 

Sherlock tensed under John's hands, every muscle tight, and cried out. His release was powerful, carrying on for what felt like minutes, shuddering through his whole body.

When he thought Sherlock's knees might give out, John swung him around to lie back on the bed, both of them a mess, and stroked Sherlock slowly through the last part of his orgasm. There were little aftershocks, ripples that shook his body for a few seconds at a time. 

Sherlock laid there, boneless and still except for his laboured breathing. It was slowing down, going back to normal. 

Hopping off the bed, John dashed to the washroom to clean up, shaking his head ruefully at the image in the mirror. At least he'd had his shirt off.

Bringing a warm, wet facecloth back, John cleaned Sherlock up. His eyes were still closed, his breathing normal now, his lips curved in a small relaxed smile.

There were some stains on John's jeans, so he stripped them off, and climbed into the bed in just his pants. He curled against Sherlock's side, not really sure of the reception he'd get, but let out a sigh in relief when Sherlock pulled him closer. 

John arranged the covers over them. He was still aroused, but not as hard as before. It was kind of the reverse of their last week. Sherlock relaxed in the afterglow and John a bit keyed up with unresolved sexual tension.

"Mmmmm... Dopamine, prolactin, oxytocin, and phenylethylamine. No wonder sex can be so addictive." Sherlock's voice was a low rumble.

John chuckled. "You always say such romantic things. Every time. Always. Always…". Turning onto his side, he looked up at Sherlock, trying to judge his reaction to what had just happened. "How is the headache?" They hadn't exactly taken things slow. At all.

"No headache. I haven't felt this good in three years." Sherlock arched off the bed slightly, stretching like a contented cat, before settling back down. He was almost purring.

John smiled at his partner, glad that the sex hadn't freaked him out. Happy that he felt so good. But then the words sunk in.

"Three years? But I thought you hadn't had sex for a decade." John grabbed a pillow to prop himself up better, looking down at Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's green eyes flicked over to meet John's. "Many pharmaceuticals mimic our natural biochemistry. Cocaine blocks dopamine transporters, allowing the dopamine to build up."

John's eyebrows rose, and he let out a half-laugh. When Sherlock stayed quiet, he searched his expression closer. "You mean you..."

"Yes, but sadly no longer." Sherlock looked downwards and away, making it hard to read him.

John reeled from the information. It didn't fit what he knew of Sherlock so far. Why would such an incredibly intelligent man use drugs that could affect his brain so much?

"Really, this feeling is a mix of many biochemicals. Dopamine, the reward hormone; prolactin, the hormone of satiation; oxytocin, the cuddle hormone. The same stimulant that is in cocoa and chocolate elevates energy, mood and attention." Sherlock mused, seemingly more to himself than to John.

The corner of John's lip curled up, watching Sherlock puzzle through things in his own way. Needing to dissect and understand it. This was quite the pillow talk. But he'd long ago given up expecting 'normal' around Sherlock.

"That stimulant is produced in greater amounts when one is in love; conversely a deficiency causes unhappy feelings. That is common in manic-depressives." Sherlock continued. 

John chuckled. "Is this your way of saying you love me? 'You raise my phenylethylamine, oxytocin and dopamine levels?'" He was teasing, couldn't resist needling Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he shot a look at John, only relaxing again when he saw the spark of humour there. He chuckled. "But of course, this current high would be difficult to replicate. It is the result of weeks of denial. Even for the sake of science, I'm not willing to go through that again."

"Well, we better test this thoroughly, Sherlock. Vary the amount of time between orgasms to see what gives the best results." John leaned down, splaying his hands over Sherlock's lean chest, before licking across his skin. He liked the slight salty taste of Sherlock's sweat, and sought out more sensations. There was no way he would be rushed this time. He still needed to explore.

It was rewarding that instead of more biochemistry theory, Sherlock gave a breathy moan in response.

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: More sexy times for the boys...hope you don't mind. ;) Will move the plot along more in the next chapter, promise.

-Biochemistry info is from an interesting article "The Neurochemistry Of Sex" By Walter Last.

-Follow me on tumblr at delightful-fear-sherlock. The blog is called ‘Friends & Archenemies’


	9. The Work

"Sherlock..." John reluctantly stopped the hand that was sliding downwards on his chest.

Kisses were pressed against the nape of his neck, sending a shiver through John. Amazing how even after hours in bed, he still responded so easily to Sherlock's touch.

"Yes, John?" The half-whispered question against his skin had a similar effect. The detective knew it. Did it deliberately.

Turning onto his back, John lifted a hand to push back Sherlock's messy curls. "I'd love to keep going, but I have to get up and be somewhat awake at the clinic tomorrow." He pulled Sherlock down to deliver a light kiss to soften his words.

"Work. Boring." Sherlock huffed against John's mouth, before deepening the kiss until John felt a bit dizzy.

Chuckling, John pushed Sherlock back, and shuffled a few inches away. "You say that because it's mine. Once you are cleared for work, I'm sure you will be singing a different tune."

Sherlock stilled, blinking slowly for a few moments. He settled beside John, cuddling against his shoulder. "I got the all clear, John."

John wondered if he had heard Sherlock right, and wished he could see his face more clearly, but the bedroom was dark. Only the glow from London streetlights dimly illuminated the room. He gazed over at Sherlock, not sure of what to say, so he eventually settled back on his pillow.

\---

John woke to his alarm and his bed was empty. It was the first time Sherlock had not been there to wake up together for so long.

Missing the morning kisses that often led to other things, John got out of bed. Coming downstairs, Sherlock's bedroom door was open and his big ass coat was missing from the hook near the door. The flat was quiet. Where would he have gone this early in the day?

Shrugging, John showered and went to work.

\---

The next few days were similar. Sherlock gone before John got up, and he heard him returning late at night when John was already in bed. There was some evidence that he was in the flat during the day, like a tea mug left on the desk.

Experiments had started to reappear in the kitchen, and soon took over most of the kitchen table, and a lot of the counter and refrigerator. John learned to not look too closely at anything, least his appetite leave him as he prepared a meal.

It was almost a surprise to come home and find Sherlock in the flat after three days had passed. He was at the kitchen table, peering through the microscope, and making notes.

"Oh...Hi." John said with an awkward half-smile. Should he go over and kiss him hello? Leave him to his work? This was all new to John.

Sherlock's gaze flicked up and scanned over John quickly. "Hello, John." He went back to his slide.

"I was going to make a stir-fry. Want some?" John unpacked his grocery bag, and searched for the cutting board in the cupboard.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, thanks. I'm working."

John gave him a quizzical look. "So, no food when you work? For God’s sake, you need to eat.”

“No, you need to eat. I need to think. The brain’s what counts. Everything else is transport.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand without looking up from his project.

Rolling his eyes, John prepared his meal, and was able to find a space at the crowded kitchen table. “So, what are you working on?”

“Molly’s research on my old experiments was a little sloppy. I have to redo some of the tests to check her results.” Sherlock only glanced up quickly at John before looking back down.

He looked so involved in his project, John left him to it. After eating and washing up, John went into the living room and watched a movie. He couldn’t concentrate on it, though. Obviously, Sherlock wanted some space.

Things between them had happened so fast, in a strange situation, and it was going to take some time to figure it out. Figure out how things would be ‘normally’, with Sherlock doing his work, and John doing his. Sherlock was clearly sending out signals that he didn’t want to be disturbed. As much as John wanted to hug Sherlock from behind, kiss his neck and get him to eat something, he was afraid it would send Sherlock even further away.

A couple hours later, he was feeling sleepy, and shut off the movie. Hmmm… should he go to Sherlock’s bed or his own? With a sigh, John went to his own bedroom.

\---

It felt good to slide into the booth, and smile back at the handsome man across from him. “Hey Greg. It’s been too long.”

The police inspector waved the server down, and ordered them a round. “Yeah, ever since you moved into Sherlock’s flat, I’ve hardly seen you.”

John shrugged. “Well, he had that concussion. We ended up hanging out a lot together.”

“He’s all better now, eh?” Greg nodded, taking a long pull of his beer.

Looking away, John sipped his drink. “Yeah, I guess so. He seems to be back at work. Do you know where he’s been going?”

Greg smirked. “You lost Sherlock again?”

What could John say? That they were kind of involved, but Sherlock was AWOL lately? He didn’t feel comfortable talking about the change in their relationship with Greg. Was Sherlock ‘out’? Lestrade and the police officers were the closest thing Sherlock had to co-workers, so it was his call if he was out to them or not.

“You know how Sherlock can be. He doesn’t talk about himself that much.” John said finally, needing to give some kind of answer to Greg.

Peeling at the label on his bottle, Greg’s brown eyes flicked up to John’s. “He spends a lot of time at Bart’s, at the morgue or the lab, doing his research. Running all around the city in his investigations. He gets pretty obsessed when he’s into something.”

John had been the subject of that obsession for a little while. The focus of all that amazing, intense attention. It had been heady, exciting. To go from everything to nothing made his ordinary life feel bland.

“So, how are things going for you these days? Back to dating at all?” John nodded when the server asked them if they wanted another round.

A corner of Greg’s mouth curled up a little. “Not really. I think I’m somewhat nervous about getting involved again with someone.”

John nodded. “It makes sense. It sounds like your marriage was pretty rocky for a while. You are afraid of getting hurt again.”

Greg’s eyes caught John’s, his gaze a little too perceptive. “It’s always a risk in a relationship. Putting yourself out there, being vulnerable. But the good times can be so, so good. It makes it worth it, doesn’t it?”

The words sunk in, and John couldn’t help but nod along. John missed hanging out with Sherlock at the flat, talking, sleeping together. He even missed Sherlock being an impatient brat, complaining of being bored every ten minutes. Missed him as a friend and a lover.

There was a buzzing sound, and they both looked down at the table. Greg picked up his phone, and made a disgruntled noise. “Sorry, John. It looks like I have to head to a crime scene.”

John wasn’t surprised. Greg didn’t have a nine to five kind of job. Pulling out his wallet, he threw down enough cash to cover their drinks and the tip.

“Hey, do you want to come along? I can say you are my medical consultant.” Greg shrugged a shoulder as he got up from the booth.

The thought of going back to an empty flat this early just sounded depressing, so John found himself agreeing to the idea.

\--

The crime scene was very messy, bloody. John was glad of the blue protective coveralls, rubber gloves and shoe coverings. He had been a doctor long enough to not be disturbed simply by the sight of blood. But somehow, seeing it splashed over an ordinary living room made it so much more gory. More real.

“Are you doing OK?” Greg asked him softly, his keen eyes looking for signs of nausea or disgust.

Steeling himself, John nodded. There were forensic specialists here, so he was just another pair of eyes looking for something that might otherwise be missed. Watching as Greg worked with his team, trying to stay out of the way.

Greg pulled his phone out of his pocket when it rang, and spoke rapidly. John only caught a word or two.

A couple minutes later, Sherlock strode in like he owned the place. He was wearing rubber gloves, but otherwise did not deign to wear other protective clothing. Greg nodded to him, and waved him towards the room. “I can give you five minutes, Sherlock.” The detective inspector asked his staff to take a break, and herded them outside.

Standing to the side with Greg, John was watching as Sherlock scanned the room. His green eyes were intense and seemed to almost glow. He walked around the room, examining the body, things on the shelves, the table, the blood splatter.

“Is he always like this?” John asked Greg, watching his flatmate in his element, obviously doing what he loved.

Greg nodded. “I don’t allow him in until we have worked the scene, since we don’t want any evidence tainted. But he sees things we miss, gives us leads a lot quicker.”

Sherlock stopped, and stood up straight, turning towards them. “John, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

John felt pinned by the light green gaze of those sharp eyes. He shrugged. “I was out with Greg when he was called to the scene. How did you hear about this?” He waved towards the body.

“My homeless network. They text me when more than three police cars converge somewhere.” Sherlock was examining the laptop on the coffee table.

Greg took a step closer to him. “So, Sherlock, what do you think happened here?”

Pressing his hands together, and resting his chin on top of those hands, Sherlock seemed to take a moment to collect his thoughts. “This is obviously a wealthy man, with many valuables lying in plain sight, but nothing was stolen. So the motive wasn’t robbery, it was murder.”

Walking around the room, Sherlock pointed to the coffee table. A single bullet shell was propped upright, with an evidence marker beside it. “He was shot in the forehead with a single bullet, and the killer proudly has displayed the shell for us. The angle of the bullet shows it came slightly below his head, suggesting the shooter casually shot him while sitting in this chair opposite him. None of the locks were tampered with. The officers mentioned the door was locked when the housekeeper entered and found him dead.”

Looking down at the open laptop computer on the coffee table, Sherlock hit the space bar key with a latex covered finger. The screen lit up to an email account. “The time between the last email he read and the time the housekeeper called the police was only one hour. The killer must have known our victim’s schedule well.”

Lestrade was taking notes with a small notepad as Sherlock talked, nodding along. “Any idea of who the killer is, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Unfortunately no. This man was an accomplished card player, you can tell by the calluses on his fingers. He was also a playboy, who actually keeps a little black book. A quick glance at it shows that he did not worry too much if his partners were married or not, and many of them are from London’s wealthiest families. A man like that is likely to have many, many enemies. And this is a particularly brazen enemy. One who proudly killed this man. I wouldn’t rule out a professional, hired to do the job.”

“Well, you’ve given us some places to start. Perhaps the killer was careless enough to leave a clue the forensics team will find.” Lestrade closed his notebook, and nodded towards Sherlock. “Thanks for coming down.”

They all exited and took the elevator down to the lobby of the posh apartment building. Most of the police were gathered there.

Greg pulled John off to the side, tilting his head close to be heard above the noise of the group. “I have to stay and work. Are you OK for getting home?”

John nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll just hop in a taxi. We should go for drinks again soon. I want to hear about how this one turns out.”

“Good idea. I’m sad our night got cut short.” Greg smiled, and patted John’s shoulder before walking over to talk with his officers, pulling out his notepad.

John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him, a few steps away, and gave him an awkward nod. He walked over to him. “I’m heading home now. Do you want to share a ride, or are you hanging out here a little longer?”

Sherlock turned with a swirl of his coat. “I might as well come with you. Lestrade is going to send me a list of everyone in the little black book tomorrow, and the results from ballistics and forensics teams won’t come in for a day or two.”

In the back of the taxi, the silence felt heavy.

John cleared his throat. “Um, Sherlock, what you did back there…. It was truly brilliant. Amazing.”

Bright, green eyes caught his, and a rare smile was on those full lips. “You really think so?”

“Oh course. You were only there a few minutes and you had so much of the background worked out.” John was genuinely impressed by it. Seeing it right before his eyes like that had been incredible.

Sherlock seemed pleased by the comments, a smile on his tempting lips. John couldn't help but stare at them. When he looked up to Sherlock’s eyes, the heat in them matched his own. He found himself swaying closer, pulled like a magnet by invisible forces beyond his control.

Sherlock's kiss was hungry, and John felt a kick of hard arousal unfurl deep inside. Not caring about their surroundings, he returned the kisses just as urgently. Wanting more, harder. _Yes Yes..._

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: The murder case is based on the unsolved locked room murder case of Joseph Bowne Elwell, killed in 1920. For more details, check out ‘5 Creepy Murder Mysteries We’ll Never Solve’ on cracked.com

-Follow me on tumblr at delightful-fear-sherlock. The blog is called ‘Friends & Archenemies’


	10. The Gala

Looking in the mirror, John drew his shoulders back and took a deep breath. He was thankful that his fitness regime lately had helped him drop a few pounds. Tugging on the bottom of the jacket and straightening his tie slightly, John nodded to himself. He looked as good as he could.

Doubts still flitted through his mind as he exited his bedroom, and walked down the stairs. Sherlock had offered to take him to his tailor, but it seemed an unnecessary expense for one night. 

Stepping into the living room, Sherlock turned to face him, and John could hardly speak. His suit was a deep navy, impeccably cut, and paired with an ivory shirt and a sophisticated silk tie. His green eyes seemed even larger than normal, as his dark curls were styled back off his face. He usually dressed well, but tonight he was polished to perfection.

Chuckling, Sherlock strolled around John, looking him over thoroughly. John stood at attention under his scrutiny. “My, my, Captain Watson. You do credit to your dress uniform.”

John could feel his face warm with the compliments and appreciative look. The olive green uniform suited his lightly tanned skin, and his fair hair. The fit was good, making his shoulders look broad and his waist slim under the black leather belt. “Shall we get going?” 

Swirling on his long, black coat, Sherlock gave a mischievous grin before he ran down the stairs to the front door, leaving John to lock up. John pulled on his black peaked hat, with its red band and trim.

A quick taxi ride later, they were pulling up in front of the elegant hotel. John looked at the wealthy people walking the red carpet, posing for the paparazzi, and felt totally out of place.

“Come along, John.” Sherlock said impatiently, his eyes scanning the people as he tugged on John’s arm. 

Naturally, Sherlock walked confidently through the crowd, and John concentrated on keeping by his side. At the entrance, Sherlock passed an embossed invitation to the doorman, who scanned the card and then the pair of them, before passing the paper back with an imperious nod. 

John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “How did you get an invitation to this event? I thought it was quite expensive and exclusive.” He leaned close to whisper to Sherlock.

The tall man gave a nonchalant shrug. “Mycroft.” He was preoccupied with scanning the crowd, and John tried to act normal as he stuck close to his side. Posh events like this were probably nothing new to Sherlock, with his upbringing, but John felt totally out of his comfort zone. 

Sherlock accepted two glasses of champagne from a passing server, and gave one to John. His eyes seemed to gleam as they shared a look. “The dinner doesn’t start for about an hour. I will try to talk with Alicia Blackburn, and Penelope Redgrave. Perhaps you could talk with Marisa Hayes?”

John was able to follow Sherlock’s gaze to the various women in the crowd. He knew the plan. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

In moments, Sherlock was working his way through the crowd, a friendly smile on his face. John shook his head at the change in his manner, looking affable and approachable, as he sipped the last of his champagne. 

Putting down his empty glass, John tugged on the bottom of his uniform jacket to ensure it was lying smooth, and walked closer to the brunette in the red cocktail dress. She was slim, and likely in her early thirties, her long hair pinned up in a casual updo that flattered her long neck and large dark eyes. She was chatting with an older woman quite animatedly, both of them chuckling. 

John tried to not be too obvious, as he looked her way, trying to think of a way to approach her and get her talking. Across the room, he could already see that Sherlock was chatting with one of his target women. 

“Excuse me,” a soft voice interrupted his perusal of Sherlock, and he turned to find Marisa standing beside him. She gave a small smile, and glanced down at his uniform. “Are you with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?”

John’s eyebrows shot up, but he covered his surprise quickly, looking down at the badge stitched onto his upper sleeve. The centre had the distinctive image of St. George killing the Dragon. 

He smiled as he met Marisa’s interested gaze. “Yes. You have a good eye for picking that out.” 

She shrugged a bare shoulder slightly. “One of my favourite uncles was in that regiment, but probably long before your time with them.” 

“John Watson.” He gave his most charming smile as he held out his hand, and was happy when she shook it, introducing herself. 

They chatted easily about her uncle and his service, and John’s time in Afghanistan. John glanced up to see Sherlock was now talking with the second woman, and knew he had to steer the conversation more.

“One thing I don’t miss about being overseas is the gambling. There wasn’t a lot to do over there in our downtime, and we used to get into epic card games.” John tried to make the comment seem natural, like part of their conversation.

Marisa shuddered slightly. “Ugh, cards. So many people here are into them too.” 

It was enough of an opening. John jumped at it. “Did you hear about that card shark who was murdered in his own flat last week? I bet it was someone who lost a lot of money to him.”

Was it just his imagination, or did Marisa pale slightly at John’s comment? She shifted her feet a little, her gaze flicking away. “Oh, I’m sure I don’t know about that…”

“What was his name again? Justin? Joel?” John tried to keep his face friendly, his tone conversational, while his eyes were trained on her face, watching for any reaction. 

Her eyes met his, her eyebrows drawn down slightly. “It was Joseph, actually. I knew him.” 

John tried to look naturally surprised. “Oh really? Oh, I’m sorry I brought it up like that then. Please forgive me. So, he was a friend of yours…” He put on his best understanding doctor face.

Marisa’s eyes searched his for a minute, and she seemed to let down her defences. “More of an acquaintance, only. We went to the same parties, and out for a dinner date one time.” 

“Only once? It seems strange that he didn’t take you out more than that. I certainly would have.” John let his gaze turn appreciative, pouring it on, and was happy to get a flirty look back.

"John, they are seating now for dinner." Sherlock's voice jarred John out of the conversation with Marisa. It took a second to get his bearings.

Nodding at Sherlock, he turned back to Marisa. "It's been good talking with you. Perhaps you could save me a dance for later?"

The pretty brunette agreed with a small smile, and John could tell she was attracted to him. She was just the type of woman he normally went for; pretty, smart, a little shorter than he was. Confident and flirty.

He felt a hard tug on his shoulder, his bad shoulder, and winced slightly as he sent a glare at Sherlock. "I better go now, Marisa. See you later."

As he walked into the grand ballroom with Sherlock, and they found their assigned seats, John snuck a few appraising looks at Sherlock. He seemed a bit aloof and withdrawn now, which was strange. When John had glanced across the lobby at him earlier, he had been chatting up his suspects in a very friendly manner.

What was an act, what was real? The man before was flirty with women, almost overly cheerful, and John was sure that was just Sherlock putting his subject at ease to get information from them. Lestrade had said he did it often with Molly at the morgue, flirting with her enough to get body parts for his grisly experiments.

Sherlock now was watching the crowd, his eyes looking like he was following the dinner conversation at their table, but John could tell he was keeping tabs on several people in this well-heeled group.

"Did you serve overseas?" The elderly woman to John's left asked, and he gladly engaged in a conversation about his service with her, leaving Sherlock to his work.

It felt a bit disappointing, frankly. He had been looking forward to going out to this fancy event with Sherlock, enjoying each other's company once a few questions were done with the suspects. But Sherlock had ignored John after those appreciative looks at his uniform at the flat.

Ever the realist, John shrugged and resolved to have a great time, regardless of what Sherlock was up to. He topped up all the guests' wine glasses nearby and introduced himself. Soon, they were exchanging funny stories and waving down a server for another bottle of red.

The speeches during dessert were mercifully short, mostly thanking everyone for attending and supporting the charitable cause it was for. John was sure the tickets had been hundreds of pounds each.

The gathering kicked into another gear after that, the lights dimming and a live band skilfully commanding the stage. Sherlock was still in stealth mode, so John excused himself to find Marisa.

\---

"John, it's time to go." Sherlock appeared at John's elbow, almost like he poofed there in a cloud of magic. The thought made John giggle as he took another sip of champagne.

Wrapping an arm across Sherlock's back, John shook his head. "No, no... It's early still. Stay, meet the girls...I mean women." He waved his arm towards Marisa and her group of friends. They were all in their early thirties, pretty and dressed well. More than one stood up straighter as she eyed Sherlock.

Giving an impatient huff, Sherlock shrugged off John's arm. He leaned close to whisper into John’s ear, “We need to work.” He didn’t sound impressed.

Glancing at Sherlock’s displeased expression and then at the attractive women offering flirting, drinking and dancing, John sighed. “Marisa, ladies, it was lovely spending time with you. I hope we get a chance to do this again soon.” 

Marisa pouted and hugged John tight, protesting his announcement. Chuckling, John extracted himself from her grasp and followed Sherlock to the coat check. 

In the taxi, Sherlock was strangely quiet, looking out his window to the rainy London streets. 

“So, I saw you talking with the two women you wanted to contact. Did you get the information you wanted?” John grasped at something to get Sherlock talking, wanting to break the tension.

Sherlock ignored him.

This hot and cold treatment from Sherlock was getting old. John sighed, looking out his own window. They were friends and flatmates, and then Sherlock would disappear for days. Or he would ignore John, totally immersed in his work. And just when John was feeling frustrated, suddenly Sherlock was right there…larger than life and irresistible. 

John had been hoping to be able to combine business and pleasure tonight. Instead, Sherlock ignored him all night. John shouldn’t be surprised by it now.

The taxi stopped, and John hopped out first, leaving Sherlock behind to pay the driver. He threw open the door of 221B, and ran up the stairs. 

Sherlock was right on his heels, slamming the door behind him.

John whirled around, his hands loosening his tie and unbuttoning his top button of his shirt. “Look, I talked to Marisa about Joseph, and she said she didn’t know him that well. That they only dated once.” There, his work was done. Sherlock could stay up all night piecing things together if he wanted. 

“I heard that part of your conversation. And heard you say you would have dated her more.” Sherlock bit out, looking aloof. “After dinner, you went and danced with her.” 

John shrugged. “I was just enjoying the company of an attractive woman. Having a bit of fun. It’s obvious she didn’t have anything to do with Joseph’s death.” 

“You don’t seem to care one way or another, do you? Marisa tonight, Lestrade the other night.” Sherlock yanked off his coat, throwing it down on the armchair. 

Shaking his head, John stared at his flatmate. “What the hell are you talking about?” He’d had too many drinks to keep up with Sherlock’s mood changes, too many to follow the smarter man’s comments.

Pacing back and forth, Sherlock wasn’t answering. 

John huffed in annoyance. _Great, just great. Was it worth living here if this is what it was going to be like? A moody asshole that couldn’t even hold a conversation?_

Spinning on his heel, John headed towards the stairs, working on the buttons of his uniform as he went. 

He was only on the first step when he was turned around, and Sherlock was right there, his eyes large and searching John’s. Standing on the first step, John was eye to eye with him, and it felt odd to look at him from this vantage point. “Sherlock, what –“

His words were cut off by Sherlock’s mouth on his, large hands cupping his head as the kiss deepened, leaving John a bit dizzy and breathless. 

Sherlock pulled back, looking at John with heated intensity, but John resisted it. “No, Sherlock. We can’t keep doing this.” He pushed against Sherlock’s chest to get more space, and stepped up another step, trying to catch his breath. 

“What, you are suddenly particular?” Sherlock followed up the step, and John scrambled to back up a few more, holding his hands out. 

“Look, you can’t just ignore me for days and hardly talk to me, and expect me to…to…” John couldn’t find the words. 

Sherlock slowly came up the final steps, and John backed into his own bedroom. The taller man arched an eyebrow at John. “Expect you to what?” 

"Fall into bed with you..." John said, his words trailing off at the end as Sherlock kept approaching. His eyes were intent on John, and it just triggered the response his body had almost automatically to Sherlock now. Before Sherlock had gone back to work, they had spent so much time together in bed. He knew how good it could be, craved it.

Sitting on the edge of John's bed, Sherlock reached up to undo his tie, and then unbutton his shirt. His eyes were on John's, intense, predatory. And John couldn't look away, as much as he told himself to tell Sherlock to stop, to leave his bedroom.

Standing, Sherlock slipped out of his suit, stripped down to silk boxers and looking incredible. He moved to the centre of the bed, lying back against the pillows, displaying himself in a way he wouldn't have a few weeks ago. Knowing John was watching and loved seeing Sherlock like this.

"Strip for me, Captain." Sherlock's voice was a low raspy rumble, and John had to close his eyes, feeling the surge of arousal from that request.

John was still fully dressed, except his undone tie and a couple buttons of his shirt. His trembling hands unbuttoned and unzipped, cautious of the fine fabrics, when he just wanted to rip it all away.

Naked, he mentally scolded his own weakness for this beguiling man as he joined him on the bed. Sherlock gathered him close, his kisses greedy and all consuming. John surrendered, swept away by it all, needing anything he could get from Sherlock.

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: I think there will be 12 chapters in total. Thanks for reading the story so far! Much appreciated! :D 


	11. The Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some loading issues on AO3, so I reloaded this chapter.

His bed was empty when he awoke, and John sighed. Of course. Sherlock was in the middle of a case, and John was lucky to have had his attention for even a few hours.

He had to face facts. This was how Sherlock was. How he lived. Could John fit into this and be happy?

Truthfully, it was mostly frustrating. They had been so, so incredibly intimate, spending so much time in bed together, holding nothing back. It felt jarring to go from that to not touching each other even in passing.

John thought of sitting Sherlock down, and talking about their relationship. It would have to be between cases, when he could have his undivided attention. Would he, could he understand what John wanted? Would he be willing? Did he want it as well, or would he do it just to please John? Wouldn't it seem awkward to have Sherlock being cuddly if he didn't mean it genuinely? John wanted more cuddling, but not if it went against Sherlock's nature.

What if he asked for it, and Sherlock refused? Just said he wasn't a touchy-feely kind of man. Could John continue things as they were and be satisfied?

Maybe Sherlock just wanted a flatmates with benefits occasionally situation. The sex was fantastic, but John knew it couldn't work. He needed more and the idea of dating other people while living at the flat would just be strange.

Everything was just too up in the air, and it was stressing John out. He wanted Sherlock, had feelings for him...but what did Sherlock want? Would it totally scare him away to bring all this up?

\---

Going to the kitchen, John was surprised to find Sherlock there, peering through his microscope.

Giving into a natural impulse, John stepped up behind the tall man, running a hand lightly down his back. Sherlock jumped slightly, but didn't seem to pull away from the touch. Taking it as a positive sign, John leaned along Sherlock's back, and pressed a light kiss to the back of his neck. "Good morning."

"John...I'm working." Sherlock grumbled, a bit of a chuckle in his complaining tone.

Rolling his eyes, John stepped back and started the kettle. "Oh, forgive me for wanting to say Good Morning to the man who slept in my bed last night." The same man whose hands and mouth had John groaning in pleasure, again and again. Just thinking about it now made John want to shove his hands into Sherlock's curls to drag his head back and kiss him good morning properly.

Light green eyes flicked up to meet John's, amusement and impatience warring there. "Fine, we'll be polite then. Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?"

John arched his back, feeling the stretch. "Mmmm yes. I always sleep soundly after a good shag."

"Just good?" The green eyes were definitely amused now, and it was hard to resist straddling Sherlock's lap to kiss him senseless.

John scoffed as he buttered his toast. "It was fantastic and you know it. Stop fishing for compliments." He sat down at the table near Sherlock, taking a long sip of his tea. "Can I help you with the case today?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I think we have all the evidence we can get for now. I just need to go into my Mind Palace, shuffle everything around, and see what comes together."

John had seen Sherlock like this a few times since he'd been back at work. Lying on the sofa for hours, quiet, almost unreachable. His concentration fully focused internally.

Sighing, John finished his breakfast. He put his hand on Sherlock's arm, leaving it there until he got his attention. "Sherlock, when we are done this case, I'd like some time for a long talk, just the two of us. Before you get busy with the next case. Would you do that for me?" His tone was serious, his eyes steady. This was too important to be glib about.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, but he nodded eventually. A curt, little nod.

John let out a relieved sigh, and left the table after giving Sherlock's arm a squeeze. "Great. I'm going to get some shopping done. Leave you to your Mind Palace."

\---

The next few days, John wasn't surprised to see Sherlock back working hard on the case. He was out of the flat a lot, and when he was home, he looked intense in his research or deep thoughts, so John gave him the space he needed.

John was pretty busy at work, and was happy to cook a simple meal and watch a movie in the evenings. It felt like having a flatmate, on days like this, just both following their own schedules.

But John's thoughts were frequently on The Talk, thinking about what he wanted to say, and imagining how Sherlock would respond to it. The more time that went on, the more nervous John was feeling about it, and wanted to just get it over with now.

The case seemed to be dragging on and on. The murder had many possible suspects, since Joseph had many people with motive to kill him. Each lead had to be investigated thoroughly. Sherlock seemed just as frustrated as John was at how long the investigation was taking.

\---

"Sherlock, would you sit down please? All this pacing is getting on my nerves." John finally said one night, while trying to watch the second season of Fargo.

With a huff, Sherlock sprawled in his armchair, dressing robe settling around him. "I just know there is something I'm not seeing. Just one little thing that could be the key to the case."

Sighing, John switched off the TV, knowing he would get no peace tonight. "OK, why don't you try explaining the case to me from the beginning, like I was writing it up for my blog? Sometimes talking it out can help." He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen, writing the date at the top.

"You saw the crime scene, so there's no point going over that." Sherlock leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling, his fingers tapping restlessly on the armrests. "So, we need to look at the period of the weeks and possibly months before the murder for who had the means and motive."

John nodded, making notes. It would actually be a good blog entry, once it was solved.

"He had regular card games with high rollers in the private room of the Spitfire Club. I've researched all the players for the past three months, and none were in the country when he was murdered." Sherlock pressed his hands together, resting his chin against his thumbs.

Tilting his head to the side slightly, John looked up at Sherlock. "At the crime scene, you mentioned it could be a professional. Then being out of the country doesn't mean they weren't behind it."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes, but I have a feeling from the way the crime scene was staged, that the killer knew him personally."

"Yes, and had a key to lock the door after they left." John mentioned, agreeing with Sherlock's point.

"Actually, the key was missing from Joseph's key ring. The killer took it from there, didn't have their own." Sherlock added a fact that John hadn't heard before.

Noting it down, John tapped the pen against his mouth. "So, if you don't think it was from his card game, was it from his love life?"

Picking up some papers from the coffee table, Sherlock shook his head. "We eliminated the three most likely women. I crossed referenced his black book with his recent emails and text messages. You talked to Marisa Hayes, and I talked with Penelope Redgrave and Alicia Blackburn."

"Blackburn..." John repeated, something snagging in his memory. "When did he date Alicia Blackburn?"

Flipping through the file, Sherlock found some pieces of paper. "Hmmm...well, from some rather steamy text messages, it looks like they were involved about a month before his demise."

John took the pages and scanned them, his eyebrows rising at the explicit content. "This seems quite intense."

Shrugging, Sherlock took the pages back. "It's par for the course with him. Hot and heavy with her, the next week just as involved with someone else."

"I can see why she was a suspect. Why did you dismiss her after talking to her?" John made more notes.

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "She was at the fundraiser with her husband, and it was hard to pull her aside for even a quick chat. They may have had problems in the past, but they were very lovey-dovey with each other. The weekend of the murder they were in Paris."

John nodded, but something still nagged at the back of his mind. "Was she the lady in the purple dress?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, that was Penelope. Alicia was the tall one in the gold dress, with strawberry-blond hair."

"Strawberry-blond?" John chuckled, the term sounding strange coming from Sherlock's mouth. He remembered glancing over at Sherlock during the party, and seeing him with the beautiful woman, thinking that they made a striking pair. His dark curls, her strawberry-blond hair swept up into an elegant chignon, both tall and regal looking.

"Blackburn..." John said to himself, writing it on his paper and tracing over the letters with his pen, darkening them.

Then a flash of memory popped into his head, and John sat up straighter. He concentrated, trying to grab the elusive image, and looked at Sherlock. "Later that night, when I was drinking and dancing with Marisa..." The ballroom had been dimmer then, and the alcohol was making the memories a bit fuzzier. "I'm sure I can hear her voice saying 'Blackburn'."

Sherlock leaned forward. "Were you talking about Alicia? What did she say?"

Shaking his head, John pushed to remember more. Alicia didn't seem familiar, right... "No, no..." John thought back to talking and drinking with Marisa, and then pulling her out to the dance floor for a couple songs. That he could remember. Yes. Then going to the bar because they were thirsty, and running into her friends.

"She introduced me to her friends..." John said, concentrating as best as he could. He might not have a 'Mind Palace', maybe his was more of a 'Mind Cottage' or a 'Mind Caravan', but it was usually pretty reliable. A pretty Asian woman, Lisa maybe...a plus sized woman with short blond hair, Tanya? And a woman in a sequinned black dress with long, straight strawberry-blond hair. "Astrid. Astrid Blackburn."

Sherlock's eyes flared as he caught what John said. "Alicia has a sister named Astrid?" He dug through his file, pulling out copies of Joseph's black book and the text messages. Everything he had on the Blackburns.

"There no mention of Astrid anywhere." Sherlock shook his head, putting the papers down.

John looking at the black book information, and only Alicia was listed. "Are you sure he was involved with Alicia at some point?"

Nodding, Sherlock dug the file and pulled out a newspaper clipping. The picture had Joseph and Alicia leaving a high-end night club, draped around each other and obviously intoxicated. It was dated two years before.

"Hmmm..." John said, disappointed that his idea didn't go anywhere. He picked up some other sheets Sherlock had put down. "Wait...wait...these text messages don't show the phone number, just the name of the sender, 'A. Blackburn'. They could still be from Astrid."

"But her name isn't anywhere, John. Not in his phone, or his black book."

"Maybe I'm going too far out on a limb here, but you said he was pretty unscrupulous with who he got involved with. He didn't mind married women, younger, older..." John waved a hand around.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Sounds familiar." He said in a low voice, but when John looked at him questionly, motioned for him to go on.

Lowering his eyebrows at Sherlock, John finished his thought. "What if Joseph was involved, hot and heavy, with Alicia a couple years ago. It ended, and she happily married since. But now little sister Astrid catches Joseph's eye, and he maybe he's dealt with enough fallout lately, so he keeps things discreet with her? These text messages are when he has an affair with her. Things end badly, so badly he actually removes her from his black book, if she was ever even in there."

Sherlock leaned back, tapping his fingers against his chin as he pondered the idea. "Well, it a possibility. I'll look into her whereabouts."

With that, he was in his bedroom, getting dressed, and soon out the door.

\---

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: This part of the card shark case is all fiction.

-I think there will only be one more chapter... Stay Tuned!

-I'm new to the Sherlock fandom, so if you enjoy this story, please recommend or signal boost if you're inclined, I would be very grateful. Thanks for reading!


	12. The Talk

**Come out to the pub! I'll buy you a drink. –GL**

John laughed when he read the text from Greg.

**It's almost 11. I have to be at the clinic in the morning. –JW**

He was long past the age for drinking late during the week. Usually, Greg messaged him in the early evening if they were going to get together.

**Just one drink, John. I'll even pay your taxi fare. –GL**

Chuckling, John ran a hand through his hair, and looked around the quiet flat. _Why not, one drink._

**OK then, since you seem so desperate for my company. –JW**

\---

"John! You made it!" Greg smiled as John sat down at his table. The table was full of other Scotland Yard workers, and John nodded hello at everyone.

"Now, order whatever you want. You're the man of the hour." Greg waved down their server.

Pretty soon, John took a big sip of his Guinness. He didn't often drink it, but he got caught up in their celebratory mood. "So, why did you beg me to come down here?"

"Sherlock didn't tell you?" Greg asked, sounding surprised. "Oh, well, the git told us about your idea, and it checked out. We hauled her in for questioning and she completely cracked, confessing to everything."

John was stunned, and then a big smile spread across his face. "Astrid confessed?"

Greg nodded and the police officers were all patting him on the back and asking him how he got the idea. He felt great, basking in their praise and attention, feeling like a part of their group. But looking around the table, he couldn't get why Sherlock wasn't there too.

"Good job, John." Greg gave him a quick hug as he was getting ready to leave a little later.

John leaned in close to his ear. "You wouldn't happen to know where Sherlock is? I'm surprised he wasn't here."

Greg grinned. "You lost your boyfriend again? You really should get a GPS tracker on him or something."

"Boyfriend? No, we're just..." John started, almost out of reflex. The words died when he saw the disbelieving look Greg was giving him, and he couldn't keep from blushing. "Um...yeah. Well, I guess I'll see you later. Goodnight."

\---

 

The apartment was empty when John got home. There were no text messages from Sherlock, and John felt a little miffed that Sherlock hadn't told him directly that Astrid was the murderer.

It was too late to text Sherlock now, so John went to bed.

When he got up, the flat was empty. Either Sherlock had left early, or he hadn't come home at all last night. Where was he?

John was tired of waiting though. He had put off The Talk until the case was done, and here they were.

**Sherlock, I heard Astrid confessed, so the case is closed. I'll be home around 6pm tonight. Can you be home for our talk then? –JW,**

There. It was out there.

A couple hours later, when John was working, a reply came.

**OK. See you then. –SH**

A mix of emotions swirled inside John the rest of his shift. Relief that he had replied and would be there. Fear. Excitement. Some nausea. Anxiousness. Positive thoughts about how things could be if the talk went well, followed by dark, sad thoughts if it didn't.

But no matter what, there was no turning back now. This needed to be done.

\---

John made an effort to leave on time, and ended up back at the flat around 5:45pm. It was empty. He changed into jeans and his favourite jumper, needing the comforting warmth.

He made a pot of tea and put the tray on the coffee table, leaning back in his armchair as he sipped. Normally he'd eat dinner at this time, but his stomach felt like it was tied in knots.

The door opened ten minutes later, barely before 6pm. Sherlock stood there, looking windswept and messy. He took off his coat, and he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. What had he been up to for the last day?

John was just glad he was here now. He nodded his head in greeting, trying to calm his breathing and heart rate as he sipped his tea.

Eventually, Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea and sat down, facing John in his armchair. "So, Lestrade told you that Astrid confessed. Everyone at the Yard was impressed with your deduction, John."

Was the saying 'Better Late Than Never' actually true? In this case, John didn't think so. He still felt a bit irked that Sherlock hadn't bothered to send John an update on it, but that wasn't why they were here tonight. He didn't want things to get side-tracked. "Right. Thanks."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable as John sat there quietly, trying to gather his thoughts. Wondering how to start.

"Sherlock, I'm glad we are sitting down to talk about-" John started.

"You want to break up with me." Sherlock interrupted, sitting straight in his chair.

John paused, his breath catching in his throat. His heart had given a hard squeeze at those words, and fell about ten stories, at least. "Um...why do you say that?" Were they even 'together'? Did they have enough of a relationship to break up? Sadly, John would say they didn't.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose, and he looked at John a bit closer. "Isn't that what happens when people have 'The Talk'? Isn't it basically code for breaking up with someone? Saying 'It's not you, It's me' and 'I need more space'."

Pressing his lips together, John took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He knew this would be a difficult talk, trying to discuss relationships and feelings with Sherlock, but this was quite a way to start out. "I wasn't planning to say that to you. None of that. Did you want to say it to me?"

Sherlock shook his head, some of the tension leaving his face. "No, not at all."

"Good, then." John shook his head, trying to start again. "Like I was saying, I really wanted-"

"You want to move out." Sherlock's interrupted again.

Again, the world swayed a bit under John's feet at a simple sentence. "Do you want me to go?" Was Sherlock projecting his feelings, saying all this? Was John a fool to even try to work things out between them?

"No. Not at all. I like having you here. I told you that when you said you were moving out before. After that Tesco's thing." Sherlock said quickly, his gaze searching John's.

John felt a bit of relief at hearing that. "Well, a lot has changed since then, and what we have here has to work well for the both of us."

Sherlock nodded. "You're not happy here? With how things are?"

Sighing, John took a sip of tea to gather his thoughts again. "I knew living here would be unusual, and what we have..." John waved a hand between them, not sure how to describe it.

"It's not working for you, is it?" Sherlock leaned back in his chair, looking a bit defeated.

John felt a bit defeated too. He didn't want to ask Sherlock for things he couldn't give, to make him feel bad. "I'm so confused."

Sherlock stood up, and took John's hand, pulling him to stand up. He placed a hand on John's shoulder, leaning in to touch their lips lightly. It was a soft kiss, but full of feeling in a way they hadn't kissed since their first kiss. Lately, their kisses had all been about sex and chemistry, not this.

When Sherlock pulled back, John had to wipe at the tear that escaped one eye.

Sherlock tugged John over to the sofa, settling down beside him, holding his hand. "I'm bollocks at this, but we both want to stay together, stay here together. We need to find a way to do it."

Relief and hope surged through John, and he hugged Sherlock, sinking into his arms and holding him tight. Sherlock had gotten right to it, in his own awkward way.

"So, you want to be...what...boyfriends? Partners?" John struggled to find a word that felt right.

Sherlock didn't seem to like the words either. "You know I'm hardly an expert in this area, John. But I just know I want, I need..."

Seeing Sherlock struggling with what he was trying to say, John squeezed his hand, trying to encourage him. "It's OK. Tell me..."

Sherlock's green eyes locked with John's. "Exclusivity."

It took a moment for the word and it's meaning to sink in. John was surprised, and felt happy. "Oh, I see." He nodded, his thoughts a whirl.

"Do you? John, I see you around Lestrade, and I know you are attracted to him. Then at the fundraiser, you left my side to flirt and dance with a bunch of younger women, all dazzled by your uniform." Sherlock sighed. "You could be in a normal relationship with someone. You don't have to settle for someone like me."

"Settle!" John repeated harshly. "You are such an incredible person, Sherlock, and I want you as you are."

"Do you? Do you really?" Sherlock looked towards the window, sighing. "I think this is why I stayed away from relationships all these years. People say they care for you, just the way you are, but then ask you to change for them. Fit in better, act normal."

John could understand that, and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Some change is needed to be in a relationship, but it shouldn't change who you really are."

Sherlock looked down, looking younger and more vulnerable than John had ever seen him. "I'm afraid of losing myself, getting more involved with you."

Waving a dismissive hand, John shook his head. “It won’t happen. You have such a strong personality.”

Sherlock let out a dry laugh. “Wrong, Dr. Watson. It’s already happened many times.” 

Lowering his eyebrows, John looked at his flatmate in confusion. “When…what..”

With a frustrated huff, Sherlock launched himself from the sofa. He walked quickly to the window, looking out as he gathered his thoughts. When he turned back around to face John, his expression was resigned. “Without you even asking for anything, I was cleaning up the apartment, setting up the second bedroom, cooking…”

“You were bored!” John blurted, shaking his head. 

Running his hands through his hair in frustration, Sherlock looked pained. “Even when I’m in my Mind Palace, thoughts of you kept distracting me.” 

The admission sent a thrill through John. He couldn’t help it. To be the subject of this great mind, to get his focus. “So, there’s a little dark corner in there labelled ‘John’?” Sherlock had certainly occupied many of his waking thoughts.

Sherlock sighed, pinning John with his light green gaze. “More like a new addition, a whole new wing that has been added on.” 

John scoffed. Was Sherlock trying to flatter him now? He was just an ordinary man. Was there really that much to ponder? “Yeah, right.”

Stepping closer, Sherlock was practically looming over him. “John, you are so distracting, that in the middle of a case, I stood a few feet away from a murderer and I didn’t even notice her. I just had to get you away from Marisa.” 

John could see the expressions flashing over Sherlock’s face. Frustration, confusion, jealousy. “Are you mad that I solved the case?” He asked it softly, just needing to know.

Sherlock sat down again, slumping. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at me. I should have seen it. I would have normally.”

“Where did you go last night?” John reached out, stroking a hand down Sherlock’s back, wanting to ease his distress.

Shrugging, Sherlock closed his eyes. “I walked for hours, and ended up at Mycroft’s. That’s how desperate I got.” 

John was surprised at that. He knew they had an odd relationship, and didn’t think Sherlock would normally turn to his brother for help. “Did you talk with him?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, but it didn’t help at all.” 

“Really? What did he say?” John would have loved to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.

“Lots of inane questions. Asked if I was eating and sleeping. He asked if I was having problems concentrating. Kept asking about you.” 

John chuckled. “And after all that, did he tell you anything?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, he just gave a superior smirk, and said I needed to talk to you.” 

"Well, I know you and like you as you are, Sherlock. I'm the guy you were rude to on the phone and hung up on. And then I obsessed about you for weeks after, couldn't stop thinking about you. I knew you were rude and brisk and often have the attention span of a toddler, but I was still pulled in by your incredible mind and your humour." John confessed.

Sherlock chuckled, but then his expression sobered again. "You draw me in too. I think we truly see and understand each other. I'm not just some freak to you."

Lifting a hand, John cupped Sherlock's cheek. "Never, never a freak to me." He leaned in, giving him some soft kisses.

"I knew I liked you when I started to worry about that. You asked me to talk about my experiments, and you couldn't get away from me fast enough. I was so afraid I had blown it already. I was sure you were going to leave and never come back." Sherlock played with John's fingers, stroking over them.

John scoffed at that. "Oh, so that's why you asked for my phone number. So you could call later and bug me to come back?"

"I would have if I had to. I even moved the experiments to the morgue, so you wouldn't have to see them. If you had left, I could tell you they were gone, cajole you back." Sherlock said, his green eyes sincere.

He was being so open and honest, John wanted to return the favour. "I wasn't bothered by the experiments. I left like that because I was aroused."

Sherlock's eyes were very wide. "By me talking about the experiments?"

Chuckling, John shook his head. "No, no...you could call me a freak if I was." He put his hand on Sherlock's knee. "I just laid back and listened to your voice. You know by now what it does to me. It was after being around you all night, waking you up every few hours to play doctor, and I guess a lot of sexual tension had built up."

Sherlock was chuckling too, and John could feel his face warming under his gaze.

"Hey, don't bug me for that. I was attracted to you from the start, and you were the aloof 'I'm married to my work' guy. It was hard being around you, fighting my feelings for you." John nudged Sherlock with his shoulder. 

Sherlock scoffed. "I was into you too, even though I couldn't admit it to myself. I followed the concussion plan, determined to be a good patient for you. Determined to get well as soon as I could. I even fixed up the apartment, trying to get you to move in."

"Did you think you were doing it to just be friends with me?" John laughed, knowing Sherlock better now and knowing how uncharacteristic those behaviours had been.

Sherlock's hand went into John's hair, playing with the soft strands at the back. "I didn't think about it. I justified it to myself by saying I was bored. That I had always wanted to fix up the second bedroom and get a flatmate. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson knew the whole time."

John smiled at Sherlock. "I don't need you to be the perfect flatmate. I'm not perfectly tidy either. And I don't mind that the experiments are back."

Sherlock nodded, looking unsure of himself. "But something wasn't working for you. Tell me what you want."

Reaching up, John touched his hand to the one Sherlock had in his hair. "This. What we are doing right now. I love the way you kissed me before, and the way you've been touching me. I love the way we are talking, being so open."

Leaning closer, he gave Sherlock a kiss like he had after their Tesco's fight. Firm, sweet, pouring every emotion he had for this incredible man into it.

He pulled back, looking into Sherlock's eyes, knowing he had to take a chance. Ask for what he needed. "I want to sleep in the same bed. I want to kiss you when I see you. I want to cuddle up on the sofa while you read and I watch telly. I want to talk about everything, share everything."

Sherlock nodded, but John could tell he was a bit scared by what John had said. "I think I can do that, John. But I lived on my own for so many years though, I'm afraid I can't change that much."

"I know it's scary, Sherlock. You said you want to be exclusive, so you have to be open to letting me in, being truly intimate with me. I can't be in a relationship without it." John said it straight, said it firmly. If this was going to work, they had to be clear.

"You'll have to help me." Sherlock smirked, lightening the mood a little. "Teach me how to be a good _boyfriend_ for you." He rolled his eyes a little at saying boyfriend.

John snuggled in closer to his side. "You help me too, like grab my arm and give it a squeeze if I'm acting too flirty with someone. You're not the only one with years of acting a certain way."

"So, we are official now? In a relationship and living together, not just flatmates?" Sherlock seemed a little stunned at the result of their talk.

"When I had a drink with the Yard yesterday, Lestrade referred to you as my boyfriend." John confessed with a grin.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Oh really? And how did you respond to that?"

"I couldn’t deny it. In fact, it gave me a little thrill." John leaned in to kiss Sherlock, and it quickly deepened.

Sherlock got up. "Come on, _boyfriend_ , I think it's time we went to our bed."

John let him lead him into bedroom, his hands just as eager in stripping Sherlock, touching him everywhere.

\---

The sun was just setting when John arrived at the crime scene, and he was greeted quickly and directed to Lestrade.

Greg was leaning against a low concrete wall, and John joined him there. "Hey John, here to flirt with all the suspect's relatives to figure out who the true killer is?"

"Hey, at least I use my flirting powers for good, not evil." John joked back.

He was glad that their friendship had deepened over the last few months and Greg often came over to their flat for supper. Sherlock was even calling him by the correct first name now.

"Sherlock should be done pretty soon." Greg nodded to where Sherlock was crawling around on the grass of the park, searching for some overlooked clue, no doubt.

John shrugged. He was in no hurry. "We're going for some Indian food. Want to join us?"

Greg shook his head with regret. "Some other time. I'll have a few hours of reports to do when we leave here."

They chatted for a few minutes, and John got up. "Well, I'm getting hungry. See you soon."

Greg waved goodbye and went back to his clipboard.

Walking up to Sherlock, John waved hello to Sally and Anderson, and the other Yard staff he'd gotten to know that were milling around.

Sherlock was still intent on his task.

John brushed a hand over Sherlock's shoulder, and he looked up questioningly. "Hey, it's getting pretty dark out here to be looking for clues, Cupcake."

He thought he said his joke nickname for Sherlock quietly, but Anderson must have been standing closer than John thought he was.

Next thing he heard was a loud guffaw. "Did you hear that? He called the freak 'Cupcake'! I guess that settles that bet." Anderson's voice carried well, and there was no doubt everyone had heard it.

Sherlock stood up slowly, his gaze scanning over everyone, and then going back to John.

 _Oh Shit._ Sherlock wasn't out to the police force in general. He didn't consider it any of their business and John made sure to keep his hands to himself in public. Greg, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson were the only people who really knew before now. "I'm sorry." John said softly.

Things had been going well the last two months, since The Talk. They slept together, cuddled on the sofa in the evenings, and talked more. Sherlock still had quiet days where John gave him some space, but generally he had adjusted well. John hadn’t felt lonely, and often joined Sherlock in his investigations.

Taking John's hand, Sherlock yanked him close and cupped his head with both hands, diving down to deliver a deep, hard, long kiss. By the end of it, there were a couple hoots and cheers from the watching police officers.

John was swaying a little after that amazing kiss, and Sherlock just smirked down at him as he put his arm around his shoulders. "Come on, Muffin. Let's go get some dinner."

In the taxi, they both cracked up. "Sorry, guess you're out now." John made an apologetic expression. "Is this going to make things worse for you at crime scenes?"

"Is Gay Freak any worse than Freak?" Sherlock shrugged. "It's only Anderson who will probably be crass enough to make any comments, and you know how much I value his opinion."

John nodded. "Well, on the good side, I won't have to hold back on touching you in public anymore." It would be nice to hold hands, or give Sherlock a kiss hello.

"You wanted to touch me in public?" Sherlock glanced down at his lap, and gave John a feigned look of shock.

Arching an eyebrow, John reached over and did exactly that, rubbing lightly, tracing with his fingertips, feeling satisfied at how fast Sherlock reacted to his touch.

He met Sherlock's heated gaze, and was about to tell the driver to take them to Baker Street instead, when the taxi stopped in front of the restaurant. Instead, he got a wicked idea.

Taking Sherlock's hand, John pulled him into the restaurant and they were soon seated in a dark corner.

Normally, John would have sat apart from Sherlock, acting like two good friends out for a meal, but tonight he sat right beside him.

Their server didn't blink an eye at this, and they were soon enjoying chicken tikka and aloo palak.

But every few minutes, John ran a hand up Sherlock's thigh, and cupped and teased him, just enough to keep him hard. Meeting his eyes as he stroked teasingly, letting Sherlock see the heat in his own eyes.

Sherlock was practically panting by the time they finished dinner.

"Can I get you anything else?" Their server asked as she took away their empty plates.

"Just the bill." Sherlock growled quickly.

John held up his hand. "Actually, can we get chai and a rice pudding to share? Thanks."

Sherlock groaned, and John nudged him with his elbow. "Be nice, Cupcake."

John took his time with the dessert, savouring the cardamom and pistachios in it. Savouring the tall man shifting impatiently beside him.

The taxi ride back went fast, John's hand roaming even freer than before. When they pulled up to Baker Street, John gave Sherlock a little push. "Go get ready. I'll finish up here and be up in a minute."

Sherlock disappeared, and John took his time with the driver and walking up the stairs to their flat.

By the time he was in the bedroom, Sherlock was naked and ready, very, very ready. It didn't take long before John was just as naked and sinking into Sherlock's arms.

\---

"Is that the traditional way gay men celebrate coming out? Being fondled in public until they practically cum?" Sherlock asked, spooning behind John.

John chuckled. "Did you like it?"

Sherlock kissed the back of John's neck. "God, yes."

"You are just as bad, teasing me with dirty sexting whenever you are bored, which is always." John grinned, thinking how many times he practically ran home to attack Sherlock, after hours of merciless teasing.

Sherlock squeezed John. "Just trying to keep my _boyfriend_ happy."

Rolling onto his back, John looked up at Sherlock, letting his hand play with his messy curls. "Are you going to say it like that forever?"

The green eyes became serious. "Does it bother you?"

Scrunching his lips up on one side, John thought about it. "I dunno. Mostly I think you just mean it as an in-joke. But part of me wonders if you don't take us that seriously."

"Mostly it feels odd to be calling each other 'boy'-anything when we're both over 30." Sherlock shrugged.

"Partner, loverman, significant other, beau, main squeeze..." John threw out suggestions, laughing at Sherlock's expressions.

Leaning down, Sherlock kissed John thoroughly. When he pulled back, he had a tender expression on his face. "How about fiancé?"

John was surprised. "Really, Sherlock? That's a really big step."

"I've been thinking about it for awhile, and it feels right. I love you, John." His eyes were sincere, and he spoke straight from the heart.

"I love you too." John said quickly, pulling Sherlock down into a tight hug. Feeling so much for this incredible man. His incredible man.

Sherlock rolled into his back, holding John above him. "So, are we engaged then?"

"Hmmm...are you going to keep doing strange experiments in the kitchen, being rude to most people, and running around London at all hours?" John tried to keep a straight face as he said it.

Sherlock nodded. "Most definitely."

"Good. Then we are engaged." John leaned down to kiss his fiancé enthusiastically.

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-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

-A/N: I hope you enjoyed my first foray into Sherlock fandom. I’m still working on getting their characters right, so thanks for putting up with me. Thanks for reading. :D

-Follow me: delightful-fear-sherlock@tumblr.com


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